


Better to Reign in Hell

by ashitanoyuki



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Attempted rape of a minor, F/M, Horror, Inappropriate use of human skin, Intrigue, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Murder, Nobility, Non-Sexual Slavery, Royalty, Slavery, Treason, War, social classes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-02-16 20:31:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 53,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2283609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashitanoyuki/pseuds/ashitanoyuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the Hellions attacking the Kingdom of Heaven, Crown Prince Michael Angelus is desperate for loyal, capable soldiers. At first, Dean Winchester seems like the perfect choice. But when Dean's loyalty to the Crown clashes with his loyalty for his family, he becomes a liability that may throw Michael's grasp on power into danger.</p><p>Sold into slavery at the age of five, Sam Winchester has long been resigned to his lowly status and his dark fate. However, when Prince Gabriel rescues him from the attentions of a lecherous overseer, he begins to realize that maybe, just maybe, he could be destined for a better life.</p><p>The youngest Acting Captain of the Royal Guard, Baron Castiel Angili has always devoted himself wholeheartedly to his work. Unfortunately, that new member of the Guard is a distraction the likes of which he has never met. For the first time, Castiel finds himself questioning his loyalty.</p><p>Prince Gabriel may hold no love for his brother Michael, but his brother Lucifer's state as a condemned traitor sentenced to slavery keeps him in line. Only when Lucifer is convicted of murder does Gabriel find the courage to gather his brother and his body slave and flee to Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not abandoning my WIPs, but for the moment, they are on hold, and this story is my primary focus. Updates might be quick, or they might be slow, but they will undoubtedly be sporadic. Hopefully, it's not too terribly obvious that my interpretation of medieval royalty has been heavily influenced by Tamora Pierce's books. I have done research on aspects of medieval life for this story, but there will undoubtedly be inaccuracies and artistic liberties. I hope it's not too distracting, for any enthusiasts of medieval life and culture!
> 
> Tags, pairings, and characters might be updated. I have several chapters written, and I know what's going to happen from beginning to end, and everything in between, but I might tweak minor plot points, which could necessitate new tags and whatnot.
> 
> Comments are welcome and wanted, and questions may also be directed to my writing tumblr, ashitanoyuki-on-ao3.tumblr.com

In all of his nine years, Dean Winchester had never seen his father look so broken. Not when Mama had died, or when Chevy had stumbled in a ditch and broken a leg and had to be put down. Not when Aunt Karen had been shot by raiders, or when Cousin Owen had been taken by bandits. Something was wrong. Three weeks, Dad and Sammy had been gone. Now Dad was back, crumple-faced and red-eyed, and Sammy was nowhere to be seen.

“Dad?” he began timidly, wrapping his dirty arms awkwardly around his knees.

“Not now, Dean.” His father’s voice cracked. “Not now. I’m going to go talk to Uncle Bobby. Go check on Impala, will you?”

Dean wanted to argue that he had groomed and fed the filly—not yet weaned, but with Chevy dead, nothing to do but bottle-feed the horse—an hour ago, that he had cleaned the animal’s stall just that morning. There was no back-talk in the Winchester household, though, so with a petulant sigh, Dean pushed off of the dirt floor and stomped outside. “Did all my chores already,” he muttered, scowling out at the fields.

Impala nickered at his approach, and Dean couldn’t be too angry. “Hey, Impala,” he said, smiling at the young filly and climbing over the fence. Impala trotted up to him excitedly and butted his chest. It seemed he was surrogate mama—a replacement for Chevy. He could live with that.

Dean glanced at the unfamiliar buckskin horse at the edge of the field, and wondered how his father had been able to afford the animal. Horses weren’t cheap, not by a long shot, and Dad had always said that they’d be out a horse until Impala got big enough to pull the plow. Maybe he’d borrowed money from Uncle Bobby, just like he’d borrowed his mule for travel. The old man was always saying they needed to ditch the Winchester pride and ask for help when needed.

Dean spent several long minutes scratching Impala behind the ears and tidying the filly’s barely-there forelock. Impala nuzzled him again before turning to trot down the field, clearly intent upon checking out the newcomer. Dean shrugged. He wasn’t as much of a novelty as a new horse—he knew that. He’d get to know the new animal soon enough. With a sigh, he climbed back over the fence and hurried on inside.

“—all the low-down, prideful things you’ve ever done, John, this takes the cake.” Dean froze as Bobby’s voice wafted from the spare room. Never before had he heard his uncle sound so furious.

“What would you have done, Bobby?” Quiet, resigned—Dean hardly recognized his father’s voice.

“Well, I sure as hell wouldn’t’ve sold off one of my own!” Dean crept silently towards the door and sat, his back pressed against the wall. “Damnit, John, what were you thinking?”

“We’ve got debt, Bobby,” John said quietly. “You know that. It’s better this way. We’ve got a replacement for Chevy, now. Dean and I can keep the house. I can even afford to send Dean to school, now.”

“And Sam?” Bobby demanded angrily. “What, you don’t love that boy enough to take care of him too? He’s not one of your own, and just as deserving of—”

A loud thump, the sickening sound of flesh-on-flesh, sounded through the closed door. Dean flinched—Dad was angry. “I didn’t have a choice!” John shouted. “This sort of debt, you can’t just pay it off bit by bit. Lord Metatron was coming for both boys if I didn’t pay the house tax outright by the end of the month. I couldn’t let them take both my boys—I couldn’t. They’re all I have.”

“Shoulda come to me for help,” Bobby growled. “Stowed your pride! Winchester, you march your happy ass back to the Capital and you pick up your boy— _now.”_

“It’s too late,” John said tiredly. “The auction was last week. I’ve already got my share of the proceeds. Got a horse, paid off the landlord, put a down-payment on Dean’s education. It’s not like it was an easy choice, Bobby, but my hands were tied.”

“You—” The door swung open, and Bobby stomped out of the room to loom over Dean. “Boy, how much of this did you hear?”

Dean stared at his uncle, his eyes huge. “Sammy’s gone?” he asked, his voice cracking shamefully. Words flew through his head. _Sold. Auction._ “Dad sold Sammy?”

The grief in Bobby’s eyes said it all. Dean’s lower lip trembled; he bit down hard, clenching his fists. “We’re buying him back, though, right?”

John appeared behind Bobby, his face twisted with guilt. “Someday, Dean,” he said quietly. “Someday, we’ll get him back. You just have to do well in the Military Academy, get a good army position, all right? He’s not gone forever, just—just until we have the money.”

Dean knew a lie when he heard one. Sam was well and truly gone, forever. “I hate you,” he whispered, staring at his father. “I _hate_ you!” he screamed, leaping to his feet and lunging at his father.

John did not make a move to stop him, even as Dean slammed his small fists repeatedly into his father’s chest. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, standing still, unmoving, a rock. “I’m so sorry, Dean. Our Lord was going to take both of you, and I—I didn’t have any options.”

Dean shrieked furiously, babyish tears rolling down his cheeks. Just a few weeks ago, he’d taught Sammy how to brush Impala’s coat. The light in his baby brother’s eyes, the rosy cast to his round cheeks, was forever burned into his mind, as was the way Impala had lipped and nuzzled at Sam’s long, floppy hair. Sammy had refused to cry when he fell out of the apple tree on Ellen’s land, even when he scraped his knee up on the rocks. And when he slept in their shared bed, he’d always curled up against Dean’s chest, warm and comforting and trusting.

And now he was never going to see him again.

The tears came harder, and Dean whirled around, sprinting out of the house and towards the paddock. Ignoring the new buckskin’s snort of surprise, he ran straight to Impala and wrapped his arms around the filly’s neck, burying his face in short, silky black fur. Impala jerked back, startled, and then rested her head on Dean’s shoulder, blowing softly.

“I hate him,” Dean sobbed into the young horse’s coat. “I hate him, I hate him, I _hate_ him. How could he do this?”

Impala took a step forward and rubbed her face against Dean’s back. Dean took a shuddering breath and tightened his grip, allowing tears and snot to slide over the filly’s fur. “I hate him,” he whispered again.

0o0o0o0o0

He wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, just that Daddy had left him in this strange place, full of strange people, and he hadn’t been back in several days. Sam buried his face in his knees, too tired to cry. Crying was bad, anyways. The mean red-haired lady had slapped him last time she saw him crying, and he didn’t know when she’d be back.

He just wanted to go home. He wanted Dad, and Bobby, and Dean. Especially Dean. Dean wouldn’t leave him alone with all these strangers, he was sure of it.

“Hey, kid.” The big man, the nice one, was back. Sam sniffled, wiping his eyes. At least it wasn’t the mean lady again. “First time being sold, huh?” he asked, his light eyes shining sadly as he reached out and pulled Sam to his feet.

“Sold?” Sam asked, his voice wavering. Sold was a word for houses and horses and crops, not for people. “Not being sold. Daddy’s coming back. He _promised.”_

The man sighed. “It’s the way of the world, kid,” he said sympathetically, taking Sam’s hand. “Come on. Let’s get you out of this pen, all right? Plenty of good, kind folk in this crowd, and I see to it that they don’t let the nasty ones buy kids. T’ain’t right, but it’s how things go, so put on a good steady face, okay?”

Sam shook his head, because the big man was wrong. He wasn’t a horse. He wasn’t for sale.

“Lafitte!” Sam flinched. It was the red-haired lady—the scary one. “Stop coddling the merchandise. His number’s up.”

“Put a fucking sock in it, Naomi,” the big man snapped. “He’s just a kid. Can’t you see he’s terrified?”

The woman’s lips curled up cruelly. “He’s a slave,” she said simply. “Who cares if he’s afraid? Get him on the stage, _now,_ or I’ll slip a line to Metatron to put a bid on this one.”

The big man scowled, but he pulled Sam towards a large, open stage before a crowd of people. “Lot six-six-three,” a tall, dark skinned man called. “Male, aged five. First time being sold, so he’ll be plenty easy to break towards any task, any training style. Likely best suited for domestic work; a bit young for field work or a bed warmer.”

“Not like that ever stopped Metatron,” the mean lady murmured in the big man’s ear. The big man went rigid, his face twitching.

Tears welled up in Sam’s eyes as several members of the crowd began throwing up signs and calling out numbers. It was just like that horse trade back home, where Aunt Karen had bought Chevelle. Only they were bidding on _him._ Was the big man right? Were they selling him?

Sam stared at the crowd with blurry eyes, until he caught sight of a familiar figure at the back of the crowd. “Daddy!” he screamed, pulling desperately against the big man’s grip. “Daddy, help me!”

Sam couldn’t believe it when his father simply turned away. _“Daddy!”_ he screamed again, tears rolling down his face.

Strong arms wrapped around him tightly as the big man enfolded him in a tight hug. “Easy there, boy,” he said quietly. “Best not to scream. It tends to draw out the mean ones.”

Sam shook, sobbing hard. “Why?” he asked quietly, shivering.

The big man sighed. “I wish I knew,” he said quietly. “Prisoners are one thing, and murderers, and those born to this, but I don’t understand them that sell their own children. But it’s your life now, kid. Better to accept it.”

Sam buried his face in the big man’s forearm. “I want Dean,” he sobbed. “I want Dean!”

“Sold!” the announcer called. “Lord Thaddeus Engel, your merchandise will be waiting for you at the end of the auction.”

The big man gathered Sam into his arms and carried him off the stage. “See, now, that coulda gone so much worse,” he said, placing Sam down in a chair back behind the stage and wrapping a metal cuff around his wrist. “Got picked by the royal household, you. Lord Thaddeus is the King’s Steward. I’d wager he wants you for kitchen work, or maybe the laundry. See, that’s not so bad, is it? You won’t work much harder than a free person, there, and plenty of food for royal slaves.

Sam hiccupped, jangling the chain around his wrist. “I want Dean,” he said miserably.

The big man’s face crumpled. “I know, little one,” he said sadly. “Damn, but I hate this job.”

Sam closed his eyes and tried to picture his big brother’s face. “Dean’ll save me, even if Dad won’t,” he said, his voice quavering. Dean always saved him. That time Garth almost ran him over on his pony, and that time when he’d accidentally burned the bread Ellen had trusted him to cook, Dean had always been there to rescue him. Dean would come this time, too.

“I hope he does,” the big man said quietly. “Now, hush. You’re going to have to be brave, because this is going to hurt.”

Sam gulped, staring wildly around. A bored looking man had come up behind the big man, wheeling a cart covered in ink and needles. “You done pretending to give a damn about the merchandise, Bens?” he asked, rolling his eyes.

“Can it, Ion,” the big man snapped. “Just do what you have to.”

“Oh, gladly.” The man smiled. “Roll up his sleeve. You know Lord Thaddeus—always wants the Royal Crest on their shoulders.”

Nothing could have prepared Sam for the white-hot agony that shot through his body as the bored man jammed needle after needle into his skin. He screamed, clinging to the big man and kicking at the chair as tears rolled down his face. “Stop!” he screamed. “Hurts!”

The big man shushed him, gently covering his mouth with a meaty palm. “It’ll be over soon, little one, trust me,” he murmured. “Okay? I promise.”

After what seemed like forever, the pain stopped, and the bored man rolled his cart away. Gently, the big man rolled Sam’s sleeve down and wiped the tears from his eyes. “I’m really sorry about all this, kid,” he said quietly. “I wish I could help you. You ever get sold again, you ever end up back at this market, you ask for Benny Lafitte, okay? I’ll make sure you get bought by someone good.”

Sam shook his head, staring miserably at the ground. “I hate you,” he whispered. He thought he did, at least. The big man seemed nice enough, but he wasn’t going to help Sam. He was going to give him away, like—like a horse. No, like trash. Like old apple cores and the waste pot.

The big man sighed. “Can’t blame you,” he said quietly. “Hey, what’s your name, kid?”

Sam glared at him. “Sam,” he said finally, his high voice shaking.

The man nodded and patted him gently on his uninjured shoulder. “Remember that, Sam,” he said quietly. “Even if they change your name. Even if no one ever calls you that again. Remember that you’re Sam, and they can’t take that away from you, okay?”

“Lafitte!” It was the mean red-haired woman again. “Get him up. Lord Thaddeus wants his purchase immediately.”

The tears dried on Sam’s face as the big man led him over to a small man with cruel eyes. “Pleasure doing business with you, as always,” the mean-looking man said, offering a wide smile. He turned those cruel eyes towards Sam, who shivered, unnerved. “Well, get along, slave. You’ve got work to do.”

0o0o0o0o0

Castiel Angili, minor nobility and newly promoted Acting Captain of the Royal Guard, knelt before Crown Prince Michael’s feet, his heart hammering in his chest. “Rise, Castiel,” the Crown Prince rumbled, standing imperiously on his slightly raised platform. “Rise, and take your oaths as Acting Captain of the Royal Guard.”

Calmly, Castiel rose, careful to keep his face smooth and expressionless, burying his emotions deep in his chest. He was making history, he knew. At only twenty-three years old, he was the youngest Acting Captain to ever lead the Guard. His predecessor, Anna, had been sworn in at thirty, and she was considered young for the post. But Anna had requested him specifically as her replacement, and if the Crown Prince, the Official Captain of the Royal Guard, was willing to honor her request—well, who was Castiel to protest?

The words had been seared into his heart and mind. “I pledge my fealty and loyalty to the realm of Heaven,” he said clearly. “I pledge my service, my honor, and my life to the Royal Family Angelus. With my life, I will defend these walls. With my life, I will defend this kingdom. I pledge to sacrifice all in service to the realm, to uphold my duties as assigned by my noble King, in times of peace and in times of war.”

Such a short oath, and yet one so binding. Castiel swallowed hard as the Crown Prince stepped forward and pressed a new, longer blade into his hand, the hilt engraved with wings. Angel Wings—part of the crest of the Royal Family of Heaven. Castiel took a deep breath, forcing down his emotions. _Are you proud of me now, Father?_

“I, Crown Prince Michael Angelus, born servant of the One Holy God, Official Captain of the Royal Guard, Official General of the Royal Army, Official Admiral of the Royal Navy, hereby accept and acknowledge Lord Castiel Angili as the Acting Captain of the Royal Guard of Heaven. May he serve our kingdom well in times of peace, and in times of war. May he lead our Guard, and our troops, in our holy mission to smite any enemy who dares to trespass against us.” With that, it was official. Castiel was officially, undeniably the youngest ever Acting Captain. He sent a silent prayer up to the One Holy God, thanking him for all his blessings.

The ceremony concluded, Michael stepped down from his platform and embraced Castiel. Even with bandages wrapped around his throat, a horrifying testament to the blow his brother Lucifer had dealt him in the practice arena, he still appeared every inch the royal, poised king-to-be. “I’m proud of you, Castiel,” he said quietly, smiling at him.

Castiel could not help but smile back. Truly, Heaven was blessed to have such a regal and inspiring Crown Prince as Michael. He would make a great king; he already made a great Official Captain. “I am honored that you chose me, Your Highness,” he said quietly.

The Crown Prince shook his head. “Castiel, how many times have I asked you to call me Michael?” he asked, grinning. “We’re brothers-in-arms, you know. And you’re nobility. If you were a commoner, I might request that you stand on ceremony, but I can hardly ask a baron to be so formal all the time!”

Castiel chuckled. The Crown Prince would be well within his rights to ask him to be formal, but then, Michael’s full title was a mouthful. “Very well, Michael,” he said, smiling slightly.

“And now, we feast,” Michael said, grinning. “I hear they have set Princess Raphael of Paradisio as my dinner partner. Wish me luck, Castiel. If all goes well, maybe this time I’ll convince her to marry me.”

Castiel could not help but laugh. The entire court was well aware of their Crown Prince’s attempts to woo Princess Raphael. It was an open secret that the Princess was interested in their Crown Prince, despite her seemingly cold attitude towards him, and whenever they did eventually wed, Paradisio and Heaven would be united as one. Politically, Castiel knew it was a strong move, but even setting aside politics, it was hard to argue with the way Michael looked at Princess Raphael.

His heart singing with contentment, Castiel followed one step behind Michael to the grand banquet hall. The hall was set for a feast, with place settings aplenty for all the nobles and members of the Guard in residence. Castiel’s eyes shone as he took in the sight. Five years ago, he would never have imagined that the Royal Family would ever throw a banquet in his honor. Back then, he had simply been minor nobility, one who would have a seat at one of the lower tables; now, he sat beside Michael and Princess Raphael, at the same table as the King himself.

The food was, fittingly, ornate and succulent to the taste. Castiel nearly moaned as his first bite of roast duck passed his lips. Perfection. Content to pay only minor attention to his dinner partner, a stern-faced woman named Hester, Castiel focused on the food, rich and tasty and so very filling.

Castiel yelped as a sudden cold, wet sensation washed over his thigh. His head whipped around; glaring, he stared at the slave beside him, at the broken pitcher of wine on the floor. “Sorry,” the small boy whispered, ducking his head.

“Sorry?” Castiel’s dinner partner demanded, glowering at the slave. “You spilled wine on the Acting Captain of the Royal Guard!”

“S-sorry,” the boy whispered again, his high voice shaking. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Enough apologies,” Castiel said coolly, waving his hand. “Go. Replace the wine.” He shook his head as the boy sprinted off. What was the steward thinking, sending such a young, clearly green slave to wait upon high nobility and military figures?

Castiel shook his head and turned his attention back to his dinner. He’d send his trousers to the laundry later. “So, Lady Hester,” he said, determined now to engage his dinner partner in conversation after she had come to his defense. “I hear that House Seraphim has had a spectacular year in terms of harvest, is that correct?”

It was hours before the feast ended, by which point Castiel was sure he could not eat another bite. Sated and content, he bade Hester farewell, clasped hands with Michael, and kissed the King’s hand before leaving the banquet hall. The bell outside had recently rang eleven times, signaling that it was well past his ordinary time to retire.

“Acting Captain, sir!” Castiel paused, turning around. Lord Thaddeus, the palace steward, jogged up to him, panting slightly. “I must offer you my apologies. I am so, so very sorry about what happened at dinner.”

Oh, yes, that was right. After several goblets of wine, Castiel had nearly forgotten about the slave who had spilled on him. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, clapping Lord Thaddeus on the shoulder. “It was a fine feast overall. My compliments to the kitchen.”

“Yes, but it was an oversight to allow such a green slave to wait upon you. I really must apologize.” Lord Thaddeus bowed slightly. “I assure you, he has been thoroughly whipped for his rudeness.”

A frown tugged at Castiel’s lips. Surely that was going too far? It had only been a little wine, after all. Still, Lord Thaddeus was charged with keeping overall order in the palace, and had he been anyone else, the slight may have been taken as an insult. “I thank you for taking care of the situation,” he said, offering Thaddeus a bright, false smile. “If you’ll excuse me, my watch begins at five tomorrow.”

“Of course, Captain. Sleep well.” Thaddeus offered him an oily smile, before slinking off back towards the kitchens.

Castiel shook his head. Somehow, something about the encounter with Lord Thaddeus left him unsettled. It was probably the late hour, and all the wine he had consumed.

Slowly, tiredness seeping into his bones, Castiel made his way to bed.

0o0o0o0o0

Loud, booming drums sounded, hard and echoing through the cold stone hall. “The court brings forth Prince Lucifer Angelus, charged with treason, attempted murder of the Crown Prince of Heaven, ignoble conduct in the training arena, attempted usurpation of the Throne of Heaven…”

Gabriel clenched his fists tightly, staring blindly ahead. This couldn’t be happening. Not here—not to his family. Perhaps the royal court of Hell behaved in such a snakelike, cut-throat way, but Heaven was supposed to be better than that. “Michael,” he hissed, just loudly enough that his brother could hear him. “You can stop this. Please. Don’t do this.”

“Lucifer tried to kill me,” Michael murmured back, his voice hard. “I will not let this slide.”

“It was an accident,” Gabriel whispered furiously. “You know it was. You know that Luci would never—”

“Silence.” Michael turned his head slightly, just enough to give Gabriel a warning glare. “Or I will find cause to bring you before the court as well.”

Gabriel gritted his teeth. “This isn’t right,” he muttered, staring at Lucifer, his favorite brother, brought out in chains.

Weeks in the palace dungeons would not suit anyone, but it seemed to Gabriel that his brother was particularly worse for wear. Dark circles ringed his eyes, stark against his pale skin; his blond hair hung lank and unwashed in his face. His once lovely clothes draped over his skeletal frame, filthy silk a mockery of his former beauty and finery. Gabriel tried and failed to catch his brother’s eye. Lucifer did not look at him; instead, he stared at Michael, grief and betrayal etched across his beautiful features.

“Lucifer Angelus, you stand accused of the attempted murder of Michael Angelus,” the court magistrate boomed. “How do you plead?”

Lucifer’s eyes flicked towards the magistrate, and then back to Michael. “Not guilty,” he said firmly.

“Not guilty?” The magistrate sounded scornful. Gabriel forced down the urge to punch the man—it wouldn’t do Lucifer any good. “Then you did not, in the training arena, knock Crown Prince Michael Angelus to the ground and drag a sharpened blade across his throat?”

“It was an accident,” Lucifer said, his face paling. “I thought that I had taken my practice sword! It was a joke among brothers—no more! I meant to drag my dull practice blade across his throat, not my war blade! I—I don’t know how I mixed the two up, but I never, _never_ meant to hurt Michael!” Gabriel flinched at the raw sincerity, the pain, in Lucifer’s voice. Surely they had to see that he meant it. Surely the court would declare him innocent.

“I see,” the magistrate said coolly. “Then you did purposefully slice Crown Prince Michael Angelus’s throat.”

“No,” Lucifer said desperately. “Never. I never would—it was a prank, a joke, that’s all. It was meant to startle him, not to hurt him!”

The magistrate hummed. “And yet, witnesses have reported you stating that you believe you would be a better king than Crown Prince Michael. It is the opinion of the court that you meant to kill your brother in such a way that it would appear as a training accident.”

Lucifer swallowed hard. “No, I—I would never—” He stared at Michael, his eyes huge. “Michael, please. Brother. You know I never wanted to hurt you. You know I’d—”

“The defendant will refrain from addressing the prosecution directly,” the magistrate boomed. “Lucifer Angelus, the court finds you guilty of treason, of conspiracy to commit murder, and of conspiracy against the Royal Family. For these crimes, the punishment is death by skinning.” The magistrate smiled coldly. “However, recognizing that you are a Royal yourself, the court is prepared to offer you leniency. Therefore, rather than sentencing you to death, you are hereby stripped of your title as prince, of your nobility, and of your personhood. You will live out the rest of your days as a slave. Crown Prince Michael, in all his mercy, has requested that you not be sold from your childhood home. Therefore, you shall cease to be a member of the Royal Family, and shall become the property of the Royal Family, until either such time as the King sees fit to grant you your freedom, or upon your death.”

“Bullshit!” Gabriel clapped a hand over his mouth as the entire courtroom turned to stare at him.

“Prince Gabriel, the court requests that you _hold your tongue,”_ the magistrate snapped. “A court of law has no place for emotions and opinions.”

Gabriel took a deep breath, his chest constricting. “Your honor, respectfully, shove your ruling up your ass,” he snapped. “My brother—”

“Gabriel!” Michael boomed, glaring at him. “Be silent. This is a just decision, which I and Father have jointly approved.”

No. It wasn’t possible. Father wouldn’t sentence Lucifer to slavery, would he?

“This court is adjourned,” the magistrate said. “Guards, please take the former Lucifer Angelus, now slave Lucifer, to be branded and stripped. Lords, Ladies, you may be on your way.”

Gabriel whipped around to stare at Michael. “Stop them,” he begged desperately. “Please, Michael! He’s our brother!”

“It’s already done,” Michael said dismissively. “Lucifer committed treason. Would you rather he had killed me, brother?”

Glaring, Gabriel gripped the arms of his chair. “That wasn’t even a trial,” he snapped. “Not with the decision already made. This—this was a sham, and you know it!”

Michael turned his cold eyes towards Gabriel. “If you’d prefer, I could bring him back, and ask the magistrate for the appropriate punishment instead,” he said harshly. “Skin him, hang his body outside the walls like the traitor he is, use his hide to make my next war saddle.”

Gabriel blanched, staring at his brother. “You know he didn’t try to kill you,” he whispered. “Lucifer doesn’t want the throne.”

“Doesn’t he?” Michael smiled coolly. “You should have heard him talk, brother. I don’t have to worry about you now, do I?” His eyes flashed. “I’m sure I could drum up some information about your time studying in Valhalla. Only traitors study in other lands and come back spouting praise for their government.”

Gabriel growled low in his throat. “You know I hate politics,” he snapped.

“Good. Keep it that way.” With a sigh, Michael rose, adjusting his ornate robes. “I have duties to attend to. A Crown Prince’s work is never done. Go back to your books, Gabriel, and forget about Lucifer. He’s not even a person anymore.”

Gabriel stared after his brother’s back, stunned. “Father,” he whispered to the now-empty court room, his voice cracking. “Father, please…”

But Father had not heard him in years, not since the wasting took over his mind. Father rarely remembered his own sons; Michael had been acting as king for nearly five years. Gabriel took a deep breath, fighting back a sob. “Please.”


	2. Recruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael recruits Dean.

“Soldiers! Attend!”

Instinctively, Dean lowered his bow and snapped his arms to his sides, drawing his spine up straight and stiff. The training general paced before his squad of recruits, sweat beading on his dark forehead. “We have a very distinguished guest, who wishes to watch you shoot and spar,” the general said, glaring at the line of trainees. “You will treat him with the utmost respect, and perform beyond the best of your abilities, do you understand?”

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Probably just another washed-up general, back from the front lines of the war against Hell. They came in frequently, to survey and comment upon the form and function of the army’s future. Dean was getting sick of it all.

The announcement drum boomed, five times. Dean nearly frowned; a general was worth only three beats. “Presenting Crown Prince Michael Angelus of Heaven, born servant of the One Holy God, Official Captain of the Royal Guard, Official General of the Royal Army, Official Admiral of the Royal Navy!” the speaker cried, his voice ringing through the silent room.

Dean’s mouth went dry. The Crown Prince? No—it couldn’t be. The Crown Prince only observed the nobility in training, those who could join the Royal Guard—everyone knew that. Commoners were cannon fodder, made for the front lines and foot troops and archery brigades! The Crown Prince had no reason to be here!

Dean had to remind himself to breathe as a tall, imperious man strode into the room. Dark haired and dark eyed, the handsome man gave off an air of command. Even clad in plain soldier’s livery, his form drew attention, demanded respect. Dean swallowed hard. This was—well, had he known that the Crown Prince would be visiting, maybe he would have oiled his bow properly this morning. He gripped the weapon tightly in his hands, his heart pounding.

“At ease, soldiers.” Dean relaxed only slightly, staring at the man. He was no good with nobility, and Royals were surely even worse! “Don’t let old man Henriksen intimidate you. I’m just here to observe.”

It wasn’t General Henriksen who was intimidating, Dean thought. General Victor Henriksen was a plain man like himself, a peasant who had worked his way to prestige and honor. This man, the heir to the throne—he was the intimidating one.

“Soldiers, pick up your bows!” Henriksen boomed. Dean scrambled to comply. “On my count, fire at the targets! One! Two! Three!”

Dean loosed his arrow, sighing with relief as the bolt landed solidly in the center of the bulls-eye. Archery had always been his strong suit, but wracked with nerves as he was, he wouldn’t have been surprised to miss entirely. As it was, none of his fellow trainees had managed to hit the center. Dean cast a sympathetic look at the girl closest to him, Krissy. She scowled in response.

“Bows down!” General Henriksen barked. “Pair off for hand-to-hand! Chambers, with Bradbury! Collins, with Weems! LeChat, with Winchester!”

Dean nodded grimly and walked to the cubbies, sliding his bow carefully in its allotted space. He returned to the mats and offered Philippe LeChat a friendly smile. The young man’s lips twitched in return; he knew he was no match for Dean at hand-to-hand.

After hand-to-hand came wrestling, and Dean was hard-put to win against the enormous man referred to only as The Chief by his fellows. Finally, last, came Dean’s least favorite form of combat—swordsmanship.

It was an honor for a commoner to be trained on the sword at all. Most army recruits were kept to bows and javelins and pikes. Only those at the top of their troop in the initial training process were taught the use of a sword. The weapon still felt clumsy and awkward in Dean’s hands, nothing like the sleek surety of his bow, or the powerful thrust of his fists.

Dean winced when Henriksen paired him with Jake Talley. The other soldier was fast, vicious, and mean. Dean had lost track of the number of times when his fellow soldier had managed to gash him open with a dull training blade. This was going to end very badly.

“Begin!” Henriksen ordered.

Dean whipped out of the way as Talley lunged after him, his heart pounding. Evade, and look for an opening. Forget the royal visitor. Forget the Crown Prince’s presence in the room. Forget—oh, damnit.

Dean cursed as the flat of Talley’s blade knocked against his cheek. Glaring, he brought his sword up, thrusting hard at Talley’s chest, growling as the man danced away. Screw waiting for an opening. Dean lunged, his teeth clacking as the base of his sword caught against Talley’s hilt.

“We dancing or fighting, Winchester?’ Talley asked, his voice barely audible.

“Fuck you,” Dean panted, jerking his sword free.

After several long minutes, General Henriksen called a halt. “Soldiers, clean up!” he ordered.

Dean relaxed, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Finally,” he muttered.

“I can’t believe the Crown Prince came,” Tommy Collins whispered, coming up next to Dean. “I mean, what’s he doing here?”

“Who knows?” Dean replied softly. “Hopefully nothing’s wrong.”

Beside Tommy, Phillipe snorted. “Probably looking for fresh meat to throw at the front lines,” he said.

“Yeah, but that’s not the Prince’s job,” Tommy protested.

Dean shook his head and grabbed a cloth, wiping his face thoroughly. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of General Henriksen and the Crown Prince, engaged in animated conversation. “Let’s find out,” he murmured, creeping close to the pair as casually as he could.

“—just don’t understand why you’re looking here,” Henriksen said quietly. “Surely you’ve got plenty of potential in the noble’s division.”

“If only.” The Crown Prince shook his head. “A bunch of lay-abouts and spoiled brats, all of them. Only a few could hack it as members of the Royal Guard, and I’m searching for Castiel’s _replacement._ It’s a difficult task.”

“I just don’t understand why you’re already looking for the Acting Captain’s replacement,” Henriksen said carefully. “He’s young yet. Thirty-two, isn’t he?”

“He is,” the Prince said. “Still, he took four arrows to the shoulder and three to the thigh the last time Hell managed to sneak a squadron as close as the palace wall. He’s in fine fighting shape for the moment, but a few more injuries like that, and he’ll have to retire. I want to find his future replacement immediately, and the current Guard and noble recruits aren’t up to snuff. If I have to ennoble a commoner, then I will.”

Henriksen sighed. “And did you find any promising soldiers among my men?” he asked.

“I did,” the Crown Prince said, his lips twitching. “He’s quite good. So good, I almost didn’t realize he was eavesdropping on our conversation.”

Dean froze as the Crown Prince caught his eye, and Henriksen turned to stare at him. “Winchester!” Henriksen barked, his dark skin turning ashy. “Haven’t you learned not to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong?”

“It’s all right,” the Prince said, smiling and taking a step forward. “Winchester, is it?”

Dean swallowed hard. “Y-yes, Your Highness,” he said nervously. Shit. This was bad.

“I assume you know who I am,” the Prince said, his smile widening. “What’s your first name, Winchester?”

Shit. He really did not want a royal to know his name. The thought was too disconcerting. He also knew he couldn’t refuse. “Dean, Your Highness,” he said.

The Prince nodded thoughtfully. “Dean Winchester,” he said, rolling the words over his tongue. “A good, strong name. Common, but strong nonetheless.”

Dean flushed, his ears burning. No shit, he was common—if he wasn’t, he’d be off training with the nobility!

“Tell me, Dean,” the Prince said, turning around and gesturing for Dean to follow. Nearly tripping over his own feet, Dean raced to keep up, his heart hammering. “How long have you been training for the army?”

“Nine years, sir—Your Highness,” Dean said, catching himself just before he could insult the Crown Prince by neglecting his title.

The Prince hummed thoughtfully. “You started training as a child, then. If you’d been noble, I’ve no doubt you would have already been given a position in the Royal Guard,” he said.

Dean gulped. “I—I wouldn’t know,” he said clumsily.

The Prince chuckled. “Well, I would. I head the Guard, and we are in desperate need of talent like yours.”

Dean froze for a moment before remembering that he was supposed to be following the Prince. “Sir—Your Highness?” he asked, his voice shaking.

The Prince led him into the officer’s lounge and settled down in a plush chair. “Sit,” he said, waving a graceful hand at the numerous couches and loungers. “I’d imagine you’re tired after a training session.”

Dean shook his head, but he sat anyways. No use defying a royal command. “I don’t tire easy, Your Highness,” he said shakily. “I’ve been getting up before dawn since I was five to help work the fields, with no breaks, so training sessions aren’t—” He broke off, paling slightly. The Crown Prince didn’t need to know about the life of a peasant! He could probably have Dean executed just for addressing him so familiarly!

But the Prince seemed thoughtful, rather than offended. “Strength, speed, agility, precision, _and_ stamina,” he said pensively. “Rare, to find all these qualities in one man.” He waved an elegant hand, summoning one of the officers’ slaves to his side. “Wine for me, and for Dean, here,” he ordered without looking at the girl. His bright eyes focused intensely on Dean, seeming to stare into his soul. Dean shifted, uncomfortable.

“I don’t know how much you heard of my conversation with your general,” the Prince said, leaning forward. “The current Acting Captain of the Royal Guard is young yet, and the most fearsome warrior I have ever met—but the strain of war has taken its toll on him. Eventually, he will need to retire. I’ve combed through the ranks of the current Guard and its recruits, but no one even begins to hold a candle to Castiel.” The slave girl reappeared at his side, and the Prince took a glass of wine from the tray she offered. Hesitantly, Dean reached out and took a glass himself. He’d rarely had wine before—beer was the drink of commoners, when they could get it, and he honestly preferred the cheap alcohol to any fancy noble stuff. But refusing the wine would surely look bad. Bracing himself, Dean took a tiny sip.

“The nobility has grown soft and complacent through years of peace,” the Prince said conversationally. “Now, with war threatening to destroy us, we are at a disadvantage. The commoner army is all that’s holding those denizens of Hell back from our borders. Should Castiel be taken down, and the Hellions reach the palace walls—” The Prince shook his head. “I need a back-up commander, and with the nobility proven useless, I turn to the commoners.”

Dean gulped. “That’s why you came to our training session, Your Highness?” he asked quietly.

The Prince smiled. “Indeed,” he said. “Every last one of you performed better than the best student trained for the Guard, but you, Dean—you were stellar. Weak swordsmanship, but the Guard rarely needs swords. And even in a sword fight, your agility would be enough to keep you alive.”

This was too much. Dean’s head was spinning; the Prince could not possibly be coming to the conclusion Dean thought he was. It just—it didn’t happen. Not outside of faerie stories.

“Where are you from, Dean?” the Prince asked.

Dean straightened, flushing. “Kansas, Your Highness,” he said softly, his ears burning. Just another poor, rural province in the middle of Heaven, a no-name town for peasants and the poor.

“Kansas,” the Prince said thoughtfully. “Part of Metatron’s lands. That man has been a royal pain in my ass.” He chuckled. Dean did not dare to join him. Insulting his Lord in front of the Prince, even if the Prince did it first, would surely result in a whipping at best.

“I’ve intended to curb some of Metatron’s arrogance for a while, so this just makes it all the more perfect,” the Prince said, smiling. “Dean. I wish for you to accompany me to the Capital, to the palace. I will speak with my father, and ask him to sever Metatron’s lands in half and bequeath them to you. You will become Dean Winchester, Baron of Kansas, and with a title of nobility, you will be eligible to join the Royal Guard. From there, you will train under Acting Captain Castiel Angili, and myself, of course.”

Dean felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. “M-me?” he squeaked finally, embarrassed at the shock he felt.

“Yes,” the Prince said. “If you don’t have a horse, I will provide you with one, but I would like to make for the palace in the morning.”

Dean took a deep breath. “I have a horse, Your Highness,” he said shakily. “I—I would be honored to accompany you.”

“Good,” the Prince said, nodding respectfully at Dean. “And since you are to be ennobled, and a part of my Guard, no need for titles in private. Call me Michael.”

Dean had not thought his face could get any redder. “Yes s—Michael,” he said, his voice wavering. Maybe it was a trick. Maybe the Prince just wanted to test how well the recruits had been trained in respecting their betters.

The Prince’s blinding grin wiped that thought from Dean’s mind. “Excellent,” he said, setting down his nearly-full wine glass and rising. “Go to the mess, and then go to bed, Dean. We leave at dawn tomorrow.”

0o0o0o0o0

_The Capital._ Dean had never been to Heaven’s most important city, growing up in Kansas as he had. The training center for the Royal Army was located leagues from the city, to prevent any accidents from causing harm and mayhem to the numerous populous.

Dean struggled to keep a straight face and not stare as they rode past shops and houses and street vendors and taverns and—he couldn’t name all the types of buildings he saw, could not even begin to describe the sheer mass of humanity. The Prince seemed fully unfazed, and he forced himself to keep his eyes on the man’s back.

Impala seemed uneasy in the city, flicking her ears and stamping her feet as they were forced to slow to a walk to prevent from trampling the press of people. Dean was somewhat surprised that the streets had not been cleared for the Prince’s passing, but then, he was dressed in a plain army uniform. Perhaps he had not wanted to draw attention to himself?

The streets cleared somewhat as they neared the large, white stone wall that surrounded an immense, towering building larger than any Dean had ever seen. Lord Metatron’s manor could fit within the palace fifteen times, he was sure.

Awed by the size and splendor of the palace’s exterior, Dean nearly missed the row of flayed bodies hanging by the gates. He shivered when he caught sight of the skinless corpses, swallowing hard. “Why the bodies?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“Hm?” The Prince slowed his horse to a walk, glancing at the bodies. “Oh, those. Do you see the sashes around their waists?”

The sashes would have been hard to miss, bright cloth against otherwise naked, mangled bodies. Dean nodded. “Those three in yellow,” Michael said, gesturing, “are slaves who attempted escape. They are a warning to all other slaves in the land—escape does not bring freedom, only death. The two in green, caught thieves. That group of five in red—well.” He chuckled. “Nobles who plotted against my father’s life. And that one over there, in black?” His lips tightened. “A Hellion spy. She very nearly infiltrated the guard, seducing my men and convincing them to spill secrets to her pretty, listening ear. I won’t have that problem with you, will I, Dean?”

Dean shuddered, shaking his head. “You won’t,” he promised. Winchesters were no traitors. Even if he was, he had no desire to end up skinned and hanging from a wall as a warning to other criminals. He could hardly imagine a worse fate.

“Good,” the Prince said, smiling. “Now, come. We’ll meet with the King immediately.”

Dean swallowed hard, his stomach churning. He directed Impala after the Prince’s horse, idly scratching her neck. _We’re in way over our heads, girl,_ he thought as they passed through the gates and over green, manicured lawns.

Dean was sure that the stables alone were the size of the army training center. It was strange, unsettling, to hand Impala off to some unknown hostler to be unsaddled and groomed, but the Prince seemed impatient, so he reluctantly allowed the skinny slave to take the mare’s reins and lead her away. “We will change clothing before we see my father,” the prince said. “I sent a messenger ahead last night, with your measurements from the army’s storehouse. They should have something decent ready for you.”

Dean nodded and followed the Prince up the long, winding path to the palace doors. Stern-faced guards bowed respectfully as the Prince walked by, their hard eyes never leaving Dean. Smiling weakly, Dean followed the Prince into the largest entry hall he had ever seen.

“Inias,” the Prince called, waving over one of the guards. “Take Dean here to the royal seamstress. She ought to have an order of clothes ready for him. Bring him to my rooms when he is properly attired.”

“Yes, Official Captain,” the guard said stiffly. Without looking at Dean, he stalked off down one of many corridors connected to the entry hall. Dean nearly tripped over his feet following the man.

The seamstress, a too-perky young woman named Becky, dumped what seemed to be an entire year’s worth of clothes into Dean’s arms as soon as he walked through the door. “My girls and I were up all night making them,” she said brightly, smiling at Dean. Her smile faltered slightly as she looked at him more closely. “Oh. I thought the messenger said you were cute. Oh well. Go get rid of that uniform and put something on.”

Flushing—what did the woman mean, he wasn’t cute? He was adorable, damnit!—Dean ducked behind a partition and stripped out of his army uniform. If the Prince was serious about him joining the Royal Guard, he supposed he wouldn’t need it anyways. Momentarily stupefied by the sheer volume of cloth in his hands, Dean finally wrestled his way into the softest riding breeches he had ever touched, a silk shirt, and a leather vest. Damn. These clothes alone were probably worth more than his father’s house. Pulling on his old, scuffed boots felt like a crime against the clothing.

Dean took a deep breath and stepped out from behind the partition. Becky-the-seamstress eyed him critically. “Better,” she said with a shrug. “Can’t make clothes for the face, I guess.”

Dean scowled. Like she was one to talk.

“Come on,” the guard—Inias—said calmly. “Let’s not keep the Captain waiting.”

Dean nodded and followed the man down another set of long corridors, up several flights of stairs, and down more corridors. If his heart kept up this pace, it was going to explode out of his chest, he thought.

Inias rapped twice on an ornately carved mahogany door at the end of what had to be their fifth corridor. Not a minute passed before the door swung open, and Michael stepped out into the hall.

If the Prince was commanding and intimidating while dressed as a simple soldier—Dean had to force himself not to gape. Resplendent in silken red robes embroidered with golden thread, a small golden circlet wrapped around his brow, a gleaming sword at his side—Michael didn’t look like a prince. He resembled more a king, an emperor, a god. Dean swallowed hard.

“Come,” the Prince said, motioning to Dean. “My father’s rooms are on the next floor.”

More stairs. Oh, goody. Dean fell into step slightly behind the prince, all too aware of the clack of his boots on polished marble floors. Michael, in contrast, had shed his boots for soft leather slippers, and moved silently down the hall.

The Prince’s mahogany doors had seemed ostentatious enough, but they did not hold a candle to the gold-gilded doors of the King’s rooms. Michael opened the door without knocking and waved Dean inside. “Father,” he called softly, making his way towards an enormous bed draped in silken sheets and pillows more plush than Dean could have ever thought possible.

He had never seen so much as a painting of the King before. If Michael looked every inch the figure of royalty, the King—well, Dean thought, he looked like any sick old man. Granted, a sick old man in a velvet night-shirt, surrounded by finery, but his was hardly a commanding presence.

“Michael.” The King spoke quietly, his voice small and phlegmy. “You’ve returned.”

“I have,” Michael said, his voice low.

“Did you bring some of that drink?” the King asked, coughing feebly. “The one that helps?”

Michael nodded seriously. “Of course, Father,” he said, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a small silver flask. “You do mean the spiced grape juice, yes?”

The King nodded and reached for the flask. “Who’s this?” he asked, waving at Dean.

“Father, this is Dean Winchester,” Michael said.

Dean gulped and bowed clumsily. “Your Majesty,” he said awkwardly.

The King sighed and took a drink from the flask. “What did you bring him here for?” he asked, a trickle of purple liquid rolling down his chin.

“Dean is one of General Henriksen’s men,” Michael said seriously. “He’s one of the most promising fighters I’ve ever seen—nearly as good as Castiel. I would like your seal to ennoble him, so I can bring him into the Royal Guard.”

The King coughed again. “What lands do you mean to grant him?” he asked feebly.

“Kansas, and some of the surrounding provinces,” Michael said. “Metatron’s been causing trouble, so this would be a dual victory. Halving his lands would humble him greatly, and it would grant me access to a soldier I desperately need.”

The King sighed and relaxed back against his pillows. “That drink is exactly what I needed,” he mumbled tiredly. “Bring me the papers. What title do you wish to grant him?”

“Baron,” Michael said, reaching into his robes and withdrawing a sheaf of parchment. “Baron of Kansas.”

“Hm.” The King nodded. “Very well. My son, do you mind—my seal—”

“Of course. Dean, on the desk, you will find melted wax and the King’s seal. Please bring it here,” Michael said, pointing to a large stone desk in the corner.

Dean nodded and turned, carefully making his way to the desk. The Royal Seal was impossible to miss—a crest of feathers over crossed swords—and a bowl of red wax rested over a candle, liquid and ready for use. He gently picked the objects up and carried them over to Michael.

Michael took the seal and the bowl of wax and passed them to his father. With trembling hands, the King dipped his seal into the wax and pressed it to the bottom of each page of parchment. “It is done,” he said weakly. “Ha—” He broke off, coughing. “Have a courier send word to Lord Metatron that his lands have been halved by Royal decree, and word of what lands have been given to Baron Dean.”

“Yes, Father,” Michael said seriously. He took the parchment, wax, and seal from his father, and gently kissed the man’s raised hand.

Dean bowed to the King again as Michael replaced the wax and the seal. His head was spinning. Was this really his life? Had he—he, the poor peasant boy, a no-name soldier in the Royal army—really just been granted a title of nobility? And lands? And—it was too much to think about. Did this mean he was rich, now, or was it all just ceremony? And did it even matter?

“You’re thinking too hard,” Michael said quietly. “I will assign you an appropriate steward to manage your lands and accounts. You are needed here, at the palace. Word will be sent to your family. Make a list of anyone you wish to give quarter to in your home. They may not be noble, but the steward will ensure that they are treated with the utmost respect.”

Dean nodded. That was easy. Dad, and Uncle Bobby, Ellen and Jo and Aunt Jody. He wondered if they’d have any access to his money, if he had any. Maybe Ellen and Jo could finally pay to emancipate Ash—they’d been saving for it since they first scrounged up to buy him off that bastard Kubrick.

“I will show you to your new quarters,” Michael said, smiling at Dean. “They have not been officially assigned to you by name, but I told the steward to keep a set of rooms aside, just in case I had to ennoble a commoner. You may have a few hours to settle in, and then I will send Acting Captain Castiel Angili your way to get acquainted, all right?”

Still numb and overwhelmed, Dean could only nod. Michael showed him to a large, spacious set of rooms—bedroom, wash room (indoors, with a built-in, water-based toilet rather than a chamber pot!), greeting room, and slave’s quarters. The place was much nicer than his father’s house back home.

It seemed that Becky, or perhaps one of her girls, had seen fit to send his new clothes into the room; they hung neatly in a carved wardrobe, the floor of which was lined with leather boots and slippers. Tapestries hung from the walls, and the soft-looking bed was big enough for at least three of him. Dean shook his head—was this how all nobles lived?

A knock on the door drew him from his thoughts. Dean turned and opened the door, blinking at the young slave girl who stood before him, head bowed, clutching his saddle bags. “Your effects, master,” she said quietly.

“Thanks,” Dean said, taking them from her. She turned, silent as a ghost, and glided quickly down the hall.

Shaking his head, Dean dumped his saddle bags out on the bed. He supposed he wouldn’t need the clothes anymore, but someone back home could probably use them, and his weapons would be extremely important if he was to join the guard. With a sigh, Dean set about unpacking his things. If he was going to meet the Acting Captain of the Royal Guard, the last thing he needed was a filthy, unkempt room.

The Acting Captain of the Royal Guard was noble, usually the strongest fighter in the land. Dean might be scrappy, he might have his strengths, and he might have had a title of nobility for, oh, twenty minutes, but he could not shake the sinking feeling that he would not be up to standards. How was he supposed to impress a man who was literally honored for being perfect in every way that mattered?


	3. Chance Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam meets Gabriel and Lucifer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Violence, hateful speech, mentions of underage.
> 
> I've been naming the countries in this AU after the afterlives from various religions, to match with Heaven and Hell being the main kingdoms in the story. If I mess up the terms for various afterlives, please let me know!
> 
> As always, all comments are appreciated.

Sam’s hands ached with the strain of clutching his small peeling knife so tightly, with the effort of making those minute cuts, just enough to scratch the surface off the carrots, not enough to actually waste any of the vegetable inside. He longed to take a quick break, to wipe the sweat from his brow or the hair from his eyes, but the head cook, Zachariah, was known for his eagerness to apply the lash, and his back still screamed from two nights ago, when he had stumbled and dropped a loaf of bread. Only sixty carrots to go, and maybe he would be allowed a drink of water.

The kitchens were busy, bustling, alive with gossip as the free men talked amongst themselves. There was a newcomer, a commoner with such prowess that the Crown Prince had seen fit to ennoble him. Sam knew better than to say anything, to join their conversation. Slaves did not speak to free men, not without direct address or need.

No matter how many callouses he built, somehow, his hands always seemed to end up bleeding when he applied the peeling knife. Sam hurried through the carrots as quickly as he could gritting his teeth through the pain. It was still nothing compared to being whipped.

“Boy!” Sam flinched. He had not heard Zachariah come up behind him. “What do you call this?”

Sam blinked, staring at the peels surrounding him. “I—carrot peels, master,” he said quietly.

“Really?” Zachariah reached past him to pick up a sliver of peeled carrot, fingertips brushing his side. Sam shivered. “I call this _carrot_. You think you can waste food, slave?”

Sam bit his lip to keep from protesting. _Never talk back to a free man._ Especially not Zachariah. “I’m sorry, master,” he said softly.

“You’d better be. Stop wasting food.” Zachariah’s hand came down hard on his backside, and he winced. Part of him longed for the days where Zachariah’s corrections involved a swift cuff to the back of his head. The head cook’s hands on his skin never failed to make his flesh crawl, especially with the man’s reputation for singling out young slaves and—well, Sam had always tuned out the details, and now he regretted it. Maybe if he knew what was coming, he could steel himself for it.

It seemed like an age before the carrots had all been peeled. Silently, Sam tossed them into a clean bucket and carried them to one of the cooks, a free woman named Missouri. He liked Missouri; she was actually kind to him, and often slipped him food if Zachariah wasn’t looking. Today was no exception. “Eat it quick, sugar,” she murmured, sliding a piece of bread into Sam’s hand.

Sam jammed the bread into his mouth, hardly bothering to chew. Swallowing the bread, he glanced around the kitchen for work; Zachariah treated idle hands with liberal use of the lash, after all.

At one end of the room, his friend and fellow slave, Jess, struggled to carry two enormous pots of stew over to the fire. Quickly, Sam wove through the press of servants and slaves and laid his hands on one of the handles. “Let me help,” he said quietly.

“I’ve got them, Sam,” Jess whispered, her eyes darting around the room. “Don’t get yourself in trouble.”

“I’ll be in trouble if Zachariah catches me lazing,” Sam replied softly. “Here. I’ll take one, you take the other.”

Jess offered him a tiny smile, and Sam’s face grew hot in response. Holy God, Jess was _beautiful_ when she smiled. Not that she was ever, well, not beautiful. Sam was sure that if they were free persons, he would try to court her. He was fourteen, or somewhere thereabouts—old enough to court, if the way the servants spoke meant anything. And Jess was lovely, and kind, and—well, perfect. She deserved better than this life, she really did.

Staggering slightly under the weight, Sam carried his burden to the fire and set it carefully on the hearth’s iron hooks to stew and simmer. He turned around and strode back over to Jess, who was still struggling with the weight of her stewpot. “Let me,” he whispered.

“Girl!” Zachariah stormed up behind Jess and shoved her forcefully. She lurched, stew slopping over the lip of the pot. “Get a move on!”

“Yes, master,” Jess panted, taking another laborious step towards the fire.

“Useless slave!” Zachariah shoved her again, hard.

Jess stumbled and tripped, the full stew pot crashing to the ground just outside the hearth. Sam’s heart stopped; that was a beating, at least fifty lashes, dropping that much food! And then Jess screamed, yanking back her arm, her sleeve roaring with flames where it had brushed the fire.

“Jess!” Sam shouted, reacting instinctively. He seized the nearest bucket of water by the fire, throwing the hot liquid on his friend. Jess sputtered and gasped, tears streaming down her face—but it worked. The fire was out.

Sam panted, staring at her for a long moment. “Jess, are you all right?” he whispered finally.

“Slave.” If possible, Sam’s heart dropped even further. Never had he heard such cold fury in Zachariah’s voice. “What is the protocol for fire in the kitchen?”

Shit. Icy numbness washed through Sam’s entire being. Reacting without thinking when he knew the appropriate process—he didn’t even want to think about the punishment for that. “G-get a bucket of floor-cleaning water and put out the fire,” he whispered, his tongue thick, clumsy with fear.

“And is drinking water, cooking water, the same as floor water?” Zachariah asked, stalking around to loom over Sam.

Sam could feel his legs start to shake beneath him. “No, master,” he said softly.

“And does drinking water come easy?” Zachariah took a step forward and seized him by the collar, lifting him nearly off the floor.

Sam shook his head. “No, master.”

Zachariah nodded. “Damn right, it doesn’t,” he snapped, back-handing Sam hard. Sam’s head snapped around, his face stinging. “I’m taking this out of your hide, boy—and if you like that little girl so much that you’ll waste good drinking water on her, then you can damn well take her lashes for—”

“Well howdy there, Zach! What’s this?”

Sam winced at the unfamiliar voice that rang throughout the suddenly silent kitchen. Zachariah tensed and set Sam down carefully. “Your Highness,” he said stiffly. “I was merely disciplining an unruly slave.”

“Mm, sure you were.” A short, slender man appeared in Sam’s peripheral vision, a man dressed like a noble, with a wicked grin that reminded Sam of the smile that appeared on Dean’s face in his memories. “Really, Zach? Soup? Water? That’s what counts as unruly?”

“These slaves wasted good resources,” Zachariah said tightly.

The man glanced at Sam, and then at Jess; his eyes softened as he looked at the girl, still on the floor. “That looks badly burned,” he said softly, dropping to a crouch and gently picking up her arm. “You need a healer.”

“Your Highness, she’s just a slave. Don’t waste a healer on—”

The man stood up, his bright eyes flashing dangerously. “Are you giving me an order, Zachariah?” he asked quietly.

Sam had never seen Zachariah blanch quite as he did when the man spoke to him. “No, Your Highness, of course not. Merely making a suggest—”

“Well, your suggestion can go up your ass. Pretty sure your head gets lonely up there.” The man chuckled. “Now. Missouri, please, be a dear and escort this girl to the palace healer?”

Missouri nodded, dusting her hands on her apron and walking over to Jess. “Come along, girl,” she said kindly, helping her off the floor and ushering her out of the kitchen.

The strange man turned to Zachariah, his face hardening. “You do the Crown no favors in whipping slaves to the bone,” he said coldly. “We need them healthy and hard-working, otherwise their productivity drops. And denying them medical care only compounds the problem.”

“Your Highness—”

The man raised a hand. “Stop. You will not punish the girl, or this boy here. If I hear of a single blow against them for this incident, I will ensure that you never work in Heaven again, do you understand me?” He turned to Sam and offered him a friendly smile. “Hello, young one.”

Sam ducked his head, struggling to find the appropriate response. “Thank you, master,” he said softly.

The man snorted. “Please. Gabriel will do,” he said lightly. “Now, Zach. It’s Tuesday. How about you summon up three of those Tuesday fritters while I have a little chat with my brother and this boy here?”

If possible, Zachariah’s face tightened further. “I will summon the slave Lucifer for you,” he said coldly. “And you truly wish to give these slaves… Fritters?”

“Yep!” the man—Gabriel—said cheerfully. “I’m stealing these two from you for a while. Want to have a little chat—Royal privilege and all. Come on, chop chop!”

Zachariah grimaced, and then stalked over to one of the kitchen slaves, a new man who had only recently been transferred from the stables. “Boy. The Prince wishes to see you.”

Prince? Sam inhaled sharply, staring at the man. No—it was impossible. There was no way that a prince would stoop to consorting with slaves! The very idea was unthinkable, blasphemous in the eyes of the Holy God!

The new kitchen slave followed Zachariah over to the man, his face splitting into a grin. “Gabriel,” he said, embracing the man. Sam stared, astounded. Didn’t he know that touching a free man in such a way would get him whipped?

“Hiya, Luci,” the man said, returning the embrace. Sam blinked, bewildered. “So, this is where you’ve been up to? Took me forever to find out where they put you when they moved you from the stables.”

“Yes, well, it seems that the stables don’t want a slave who is allergic to hay,” the slave said, rubbing the sores on his face absently.

Gabriel’s lips tightened. “Come on, you two,” he said, gesturing for them to follow him.

“Wait, Your Highness!” one of the cooks, Amelia, called. She pressed a full tray of fritters into his hands. “For yourself, and, erm—”

“My brother and guest,” Gabriel said pleasantly. “Thank you, Amelia.” He turned away from the cook and pushed open the door.

Instinctively, Sam followed the man, his heart thudding as they left the kitchen for one of the corridors, making for one of the palace’s many small, private libraries. He had been there to clean a few times as a child, but since turning eight, he had rarely left the slaves’ quarters and the kitchen. He had almost forgotten the overwhelming splendor of the palace, the finery that was so above him.

Inside the tiny library, Gabriel closed the door, effectively locking them in. Sam tensed—being locked in a room with a noble never ended well, he knew that. But Gabriel’s face did not lose its kindly expression; rather, set the tray of fritters down on a table and embraced the other slave, clinging to him. “Have you been well?” he asked. “I hear they eat better in the kitchens than anywhere else in the palace.”

The other slave snorted. “Lies,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Of course, it could just be me. I’m no one’s favorite—not in the laundry, or with the cleaners, or in the stables, and now in the kitchens. Everyone knows better than to treat me well.”

Gabriel shook his head. “I’ll set them straight,” he said firmly.

“No, you won’t,” the slave said. “They’ll smile and nod and treat me well when you’re around, and then they’ll whip the skin from my back. Everyone hates an alleged traitor.”

Gabriel sighed. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. He glanced at Sam and gestured to the plush chairs around the table. “Sit. There’s plenty of fritters to go around. I should have known that asking for three would get me a whole tray. Perks, am I right?”

Sam tensed. Sitting in the presence of a free man—especially a noble—was grounds for a whipping. But then, so was defying an order. Gingerly, he sat down, eyeing the fritters. They did look good, almost as good as they smelled. Every Tuesday the kitchen baked them, and never once had he eaten one.

The other slave grabbed a fritter and bit into it, moaning with happiness. Sam stared at him, appalled, but Gabriel didn’t seem to mind. He grabbed one of his own and nodded at Sam. “Come on, kid, they’re delicious. Try one.”

Was he serious? Sam hesitated for only a split second before seizing one of the pastries and cramming it into his mouth. Overwhelming sweetness exploded on his tongue; he moaned, closing his eyes in ecstasy as he chewed, before he remembered who he ate with. He forced himself to open his eyes and swallowed, glancing nervously at the man. “I—I can serve, master,” he said quietly.

Gabriel snorted. “Why? I’ve got arms,” he said, reaching for another fritter. “You’re in the company of the lay-about, ambitionless, abolitionist Prince, kiddo. Do whatever you want—I won’t get offended. Well, unless you call me ‘master’. I’m not about that.”

Sam swallowed hard. “Then—”

“Gabriel,” the man said firmly. “I’m Gabriel. Or Gabe.”

“Or Brat,” the other slave said, grinning.

Sam gaped, but Gabriel simply swatted him on the shoulder. “Shut it, Luci,” he ordered. He shook his head, then turned his gaze back to Sam. “Now, kiddo. First off, what’s your name?”

Sam stared. No free man had ever asked his name. He was boy, or slave—he was sugar to Missouri, but she was a special case. He gulped, wondering how to answer. “Sam,” he said finally. “My name is Sam, sir.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Well, ‘sir’ is better than ‘master’, I guess,” he said. “Seriously, though, no titles. Makes me retch.”

Sam blinked. “Anyways,” Gabriel said, his mouth full of his second fritter. “Sam. Want to tell me what actually happened in the kitchens? I don’t believe Zachariah for a damn second. You don’t seem like the unruly type to me.”

Was Gabriel asking him to speak out against Zachariah? Sam glanced at the other slave, who nodded at him. He sighed—better to answer the noble than ignore him, after all. “Jess and I were taking stew to the fire,” he said quietly. “She was moving slowly. She—she’s new to this, new to the kitchens. She doesn’t have physical strength yet. Master Zachariah shoved her. She dropped the stew and fell into the fire.”

Gabriel growled, and Sam flinched, certain he’d done something wrong. As if he saw the fear on Sam’s face, Gabriel’s eyes instantly softened. “Not mad at you, kid,” he assured Sam. “Mad at that dick-face Zachariah. Go on. Why was he after you?”

Sam closed his eyes, ashamed. “I wasted water,” he said, his voice cracking. “Just—Jess was burning. I know she’s just a slave, but I—I wasted drinking water to put the fire out.” He cracked open his eyes to peek at Gabriel, waiting for the oncoming fury.

Gabriel’s eyes darkened, but somehow, Sam got the feeling that it wasn’t directed at him. “What were you supposed to do?” he demanded.

“Get floor-cleaning water,” the other slave said before Sam could respond. “On the other side of the kitchen, in the store room. She’d have been dead before he got to her.”

Gabriel clenched his teeth. “Fucking bastard,” he snarled. “I’ll change the kitchen policy. Royal decree. Even if they want to bitch, we’ll play it as property damage. Slaves are worth more than water, right?”

The other slave shrugged. “Last time I had access to economic information, they were,” he said.

“Then we’ll play that card,” Gabriel said firmly. “Old Zach’s a menace, anyways. Can’t believe Thad hasn’t gotten rid of him.”

The other slave snorted. “Really, Gabriel? Thaddeus prefers those who whip liberally and often.”

Gabriel scowled. “Personal experience, Lucifer?” he asked, tense. “Can I see your back this time, then?”

“No,” the slave said. Sam stared at him—defying a free man? It was suicide!

But Gabriel just sighed. “Fine,” he said. “I’d really like to put Thaddeus in his place, but if you’re sure—”

“I am,” the slave said firmly. “It would just make things worse for me.”

“Fine,” Gabriel said sullenly. He was silent for a moment, and then, shaking his head, turned to face Sam, who tensed. “Sam, do you want another fritter?”

Sam blinked. “I—am I allowed?” he asked carefully.

Gabriel nodded, grabbing a pastry from the tray. “Even I can’t eat this much,” he said, stuffing it in his mouth. Sam smiled and took another fritter, nibbling slowly at this one. The sheer amount of food would certainly ruin his dinner, but then he would have some to save, to stave off the hunger another day.

“Sam, how did you end up in the kitchens?” Gabriel asked. “I know Lucifer’s story—boy, do I know it. Michael’s a bastard. But you? Born here, or what?”

Michael? Sam hoped that Gabriel was not speaking ill of the Crown Prince. To do so was treason—he knew that. “I was sold as a child,” he said carefully, loathe to lie. “I think my father needed money.”

Gabriel’s lips twitched with displeasure. “I’d like to give that guy a piece of my mind,” he said angrily.

“It’s okay,” Sam hastened to assure the noble, lest he think Sam was unsatisfied with his station. “Really. Fathers have the right to sell their children, and I couldn’t have asked for a better position. I eat regularly, and the work isn’t so bad.”

Gabriel shook his head. “Sorry, kid, you’re talking to the guy who studied in Valhalla and Brahma,” he said firmly. “Valhalla, the only slaves are war prisoners. Their kids are born free, even. Brahma, they’ve got a caste system, sure, but no slaves. I can accept that. I can’t accept kids getting slaved and whipped and worked to the bone.”

Sam stared at the man. “It—it’s not so bad,” he said finally.

“For now,” the other slave—Lucifer, Gabriel had called him—said darkly. “Sam, I’m new to the kitchens, but I see the way Zachariah looks at you, the way he acts with you. It might not be so bad now, but it will get worse.”

Gabriel glanced sharply at Lucifer. “Care to elaborate?” he asked.

Lucifer shrugged. “Everyone knows Zachariah likes them young,” he said. “Bastard’s groped this kid more times than I can count, all in the name of punishment, and I’ve only been there for four days. He’s going to make a move soon.”

Groped? Sam cocked his head. He’d heard the word, but he wasn’t entirely sure what it meant. Grabbing someone, wasn’t it? Zachariah was well within his rights to grab him when he misbehaved.

It seemed that Gabriel disagreed. His face went white; he stared between Lucifer and Sam. “That sick fucker,” he whispered. He glanced at Sam before turning back to Lucifer. “You’re sure?”

Lucifer nodded grimly. “All the slaves know what he likes. Likes to come onto the younger slaves, basically break and harass them until they submit to him. Then he fucks them and leaves them, treats them like trash when he’s done with them.”

_Fucks them._ Now there was a term that Sam knew. Sleeping in public slave quarters, he’d seen more than his fair share of men with men, and women with women, and occasionally women with men when given permission. And when men laid with men, it always seemed so painful, and he had never seen the appeal. Did Zachariah—Sam gulped, his stomach turning.

“Sam?” Gabriel asked softly.

He was going to be sick. When Zachariah touched his backside, was he really thinking of—Sam leaned forward, retching, even though nothing came out. “No,” he whispered fervently. “No, no, he doesn’t want that. He _can’t._ I can’t…” He trailed off. If Zachariah wanted him to bend over, he’d have no choice. He couldn’t deny a free man, no matter how ill the idea of laying with another man, of letting a man touch him like that, made him feel.

“It’s true, Sam,” Lucifer said softly. “I’m surprised you didn’t realize before. He’s been grooming you for this at least since I’ve been in the kitchens, and likely before.”

All those times Zachariah had hit him on the backside—had that been punishment, or gratification? Those careless brushes against his side, his chest—what if they weren’t an accident? “No,” Sam whispered again. “No, no, I can’t…” He stared at Lucifer and Gabriel, his mind spinning. “Help,” he croaked, before he could remember himself. Before he could remember that he was begging assistance from a powerless slave, and a too-powerful noble. “Help me.”

Gabriel’s eyes widened with horror. “That sick fuck,” he hissed. “Touching kids? Does he—”

“I don’t know the details,” Lucifer said, cutting Gabriel off. “However, I’d wager that the answer is yes.”

Gabriel snarled. “Seems I need to have a talk with our head cook,” he growled. “Luci, you’ve always been better at politics than me. What angle should I play? Keeping the slaves productive?”

Lucifer shook his head. “Slaves who are uncomfortable with sex are expected to work past it,” he said slowly. “Pull the property card. You don’t want some cook touching the Royal family’s property like that.”

Gabriel nodded. “Good plan,” he said fervently, turning to look at Sam. Sam ducked his head, his eyes filling with tears, weak, shameful tears that should be confined to the slave quarters, damnit! “Sam,” Gabriel said softly. “I won’t let him touch you.”

Shakily, Sam nodded, even though he knew it was an empty promise. No noble would remember his pledge to a slave.

“I’m serious,” Gabriel said sternly. “How old are you?”

It wasn’t easy to remember. He had always approximated by the seasons, and while he thought he knew his age, he could be wrong. “Fourteen, maybe still thirteen,” he said softly. “Maybe fifteen. I’m not entirely sure.”

Gabriel hissed. “That fucking pervert is _sixty,”_ he snapped. “He’s got no excuse. No excuse to hurt anyone, especially kids.”

Lucifer rolled his eyes. “You think he cares?” he asked bitterly. “Brother, if you think anyone cares about a slave’s consent—”

“I know,” Gabriel snapped. “Trust me, I know. Do you think it’s a coincidence that Malachai hasn’t been seen since you told me—”

“Gabriel.” Lucifer’s eyes flashed. “You promised never to bring that up.”

Sam buried his face in his hands, unwilling to listen to their conversation. Nausea churned in his stomach. He had no way to protect himself, none at all! And with Zachariah forbidden to whip him for his disobedience today—Holy God, what if he punished him like—like that?

“Hey.” Sam peeked out from between his fingers, accidentally meeting Gabriel’s kind, honey-brown eyes. “Don’t worry, Sam. I’ll talk to Zachariah. He won’t touch you again, all right?”

Sam nodded, though his heart wasn’t in it. “I—” He broke off before he could say something stupid in front of a free man.

Gabriel, it seemed, was having none of his silence. “You what?” he asked quietly.

Sam ducked his head, anticipating a slap. “I want to be safe,” he whispered.

A long moment passed before Sam dared to look up. Gabriel and Lucifer both stared at him, their eyes shining with pity. “I’ll keep you safe,” Gabriel said softly. “I’m a prince. I have that power.”

“And when he can’t keep you safe, because power only works when you’re there, I’ll protect you,” Lucifer promised. “People would rather beat on an infamous traitor than a random kid, anyways.”

Sam shook his head. “I can’t ask you to do that,” he protested.

A tiny smile crossed Lucifer’s lips. “You don’t have to,” he said. “Gabriel’s taking you under his wing, and that’s good enough for me. You’re a good kid, Sam, and you deserve better than this. If that means I take a hit or two, well, I take enough hits that a few more won’t matter.”

Gabriel scowled at this, but said nothing. “I have to go soon,” he said, glancing at Lucifer. “Michael will be missing me, and you know he doesn’t allow me to visit with you.”

Lucifer smiled wryly. “Ah, yes, his alleged attempted assassin,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “I understand. Sam and I will head back to the kitchen.”

Gabriel nodded. “Stay safe, both of you,” he said. “I’ll have a word with Zachariah after dinner.”

Lucifer nodded and rose, laying a gentle hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Ready to go back?” he asked kindly.

Shakily, Sam nodded. “Yes,” he said, pushing out of the chair.

Together, he and Lucifer walked back to the kitchen, slipping quietly into the bustling room and resuming work at open stations. Behind him, Sam could feel Zachariah’s eyes burning through him, and he shivered, his stomach turning.

It was okay, he reminded himself. He was protected, for the first time since he had become a slave. He was going to be fine.


	4. The New Noble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel meets Dean. The ennobled commoner isn't quite what he was expecting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not very good at writing combat, even training scenes. There's not much of that in this chapter, but I still welcome any pointers.

Castiel’s day began as it usually did, with morning prayers and ablutions long before the sun could peek through the window. His old wounds ached after hours without attention; he stretched carefully before rubbing salve into his still-fresh injuries and long-healed scars. Preliminaries completed, he donned his uniform and gathered his neatly stored weapons, and then headed up to the wall.

Michael would be returning today, hopefully with some prospects for leadership in the Guard. Castiel was not optimistic. The Royal Guard might be an honorable position in times of peace, but in times of war, it was nearly as dangerous as the army. Too many times in recent years, Hellion troops had managed to sneak through Heaven’s outer-lying areas, coming as far as the palace walls before being beaten back. The Hellions might be a barbaric people, but Castiel had to admit that their warriors were strong. A tough and unyielding sort, they had survived the wasteland that was Hell and still managed to keep strength through work and combat. Heaven’s warriors lived lives of much greater luxury, and were softer than the Hellions as a result.

Castiel was quiet as he made his rounds, stopping for only moments at a time to hear word from his fellow officers. The south-eastern wall was weakened from the last attack, still in need of repairs; might he direct some extra warriors to the area? Castiel pulled several of the strongest recruits from the north side of the wall to temporarily guard the south. Hellions, coming from the south as they did, rarely attacked the northern wall after all.

Only when he had made his rounds three times did Castiel dare to take his own position. Time and time again, Michael had asked him to step back from the front lines, and each time, he had refused. His people fought and died protecting the castle; he had taken an oath to do the same. He might be an officer, but an officer who refused to brave the front lines was the worst sort of coward, in his opinion. If ever the Hellions managed to scale the walls, they would not cease their attacks when the front line was destroyed. Better to meet the barbarians head on than to cower in fear and pray that his men would protect him.

The noon bell rang after hours of quiet watch. Technically, Castiel’s shift was over; the next wave of guards came to take their place on the wall, relieving their comrades. Castiel stepped back to allow Commander Hael to take his place, but remained outside. He pulled a hunk of cheese-stuffed bread from his pocket and ate quietly, observing his soldiers.

“Captain.” Castiel glanced up and offered Lieutenant Inias a perfunctory smile. “The Crown Prince has returned, with a candidate he would like you to meet.”

Castiel nodded and wrapped the remains of his bread in paper. “Has he?” he asked, shoving the food back into his pocket. “I’m surprised. I’ve heard that the current generation of nobles is cowardly.”

Inias snorted, his face unreadable. “That they are,” he said scornfully. “The Prince brought back a commoner and had him ennobled, just to put him on the walls. I suppose he wasn’t thinking about the cohesion of the Guard when he made that decision.”

A commoner? Castiel frowned. Those without titles of nobility were invaluable in the army, to be certain, but it took generations of proper breeding and a genteel background to make a member of the Guard. “I’m sure our Official Captain had his reasons,” he said slowly. “I will meet with this man, if Michael requests it.”

Inias nodded. “He’s in the quarters set aside for newcomers,” he said, leading Castiel from the wall. “Would you like me to stay for the meeting?”

Castiel shook his head. “As I understand it, you ought to be guarding the doors,” he said calmly. “Return to your post. I will send someone for you if I need you.”

Inias nodded and broke off when inside the palace. Alone, Castiel sighed and shook his head. “Damnit, Michael,” he muttered. No matter how great a fighter, he did not look forward to working with someone born of ignoble blood. It took more than a few papers and a title to make a noble; and some uncouth brat would only weaken the camaraderie and cohesion of the guard.

Still, it was not his place to dispute royal orders. Castiel made his way to the rooms set aside for newcomers and knocked twice on the door.

A moment later, he heard someone fumbling with the latch, and the door swung open. A young, wide-eyed man stood in the doorway, blinking up at him. “Hello,” he said cautiously.

If nothing else, the man could pass for a noble in bearing alone. With his well-set _(handsome, though Castiel would never admit it)_ face, his intense green eyes, and his tall, muscular frame, he at least looked every inch the warrior. The colors of his clothing clashed violently, but not all nobles managed to learn the art of dressing well. Military-regulation hair left his ears and forehead visible, and while his smattering of freckles left no doubt that he had spent time in the sun, he had managed to escape the leathery skin that afflicted so many farmers and laborers.

Castiel clasped his hands behind his back and stepped into the greeting room. “Acting Captain Castiel Angili, of the Royal Guard,” he said coolly, staring at the man. “Shut the door.”

The man hastened to obey. Castiel sighed and tightened his fingers, eyes glancing around the room. Neat and orderly—military precision, no doubt the product of his army training. Well, Castiel could not disapprove of that, at least. He turned to face the man, who hovered awkwardly by the door, looking nervous. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Dean Winchester, my Lo—sir.” The man winced. “I’m sorry. This all came as a surprise.”

Castiel nodded, repressing the urge to snort. Of course it did. Rarely did the Crown grant titles of nobility to commoners—ordinarily, such a thing came only after acts of service well and beyond the call of duty. But then, that was Michael, always full of surprises. “So, you are a commoner, ennobled by the Crown Prince to serve on my walls,” he said slowly.

“Yes, sir,” Dean said quietly.

At least he was respectful. Castiel had only met one ennobled commoner before, and she had been a presumptuous pain in his ass. He’d have thrown her off the walls rather than allow her to serve on them; at least Dean did not seem to be the same way. “What lands did Michael give you?” he asked, more out of idle curiosity than anything more pressing.

“Kansas, and the surrounding provinces, sir.”

Of course. It was an ill-kept secret that Michael was fed-up with Metatron’s posturing. At least the Prince had not drawn lands from anyone truly noble or important. Castiel nodded. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll be frank. I am uneasy about having you on my wall.”

“Sir?” Dean clasped his hands before him nervously.

Honesty was only proper, noble to noble—and common-born though Dean may be, he was technically a part of the nobility now. “My Guard is made up of the noble born, those bred and raised to fight in service to the crown,” he said calmly. “You may have been granted a title and lands, and you may have trained for the army, but you do not have that background. No amount of paperwork will change that.”

He expected for Dean to duck his head, maybe to turn away. He was surprised when, instead, Dean’s jaw clenched, his bright green eyes flashing. “Respectfully, sir, I have been training for the army since I was nine,” he said stiffly. “I might not have a noble background, but I have a fighting one. Isn’t that more important?”

Castiel could not hold back a chuckle. At least the boy had guts. Maybe it would be enough to compensate for his poor breeding. “We’ll see,” he said. “Michael seems to have seen potential in you, so I won’t write you off immediately. You prove yourself to me, and I will revise my opinion. However, if I witness any uncouth behavior, any rudeness towards my other men, any laziness or slacking, I will have you off my wall without a second chance. Are we clear?”

Dean’s brow furrowed as he forced a smile—more of a grimace, Castiel thought. “Crystal-clear, sir.”

“Good,” Castiel said. “Now, then. You will not see the top of the palace walls until I have been convinced of your abilities. How long will it take you to ready yourself for the practice courts?”

Dean glanced down, staring at his clothes. “As long as it takes me to find suitable training wear in my wardrobe, sir,” he said stiffly.

Castiel snorted—of course, the boy wasn’t used to proper clothing. He strode into the boy’s bedroom and threw open the doors of his wardrobe. “The breeches and vest are fine,” he said calmly. “Silk is impractical.” He took down a grey-dyed woolen shirt and tossed it onto the bed. Glancing around to ensure that Dean had followed him—and he had, he was pleased to note—he fixed the boy with a steady gaze. “Change, and gather your weapons. Anything of inferior quality may be exchanged later. I will wait outside your rooms.” He did not give Dean a chance to reply before turning on his heel and walking out into the hallway.

Dean appeared only moments later, his silk shirt swapped for the woolen one, a sword belted around his midsection, bow in hand and quiver strapped to his back. Castiel glanced at the sword. Few commoners, even in the army, were ever trained on the weapon. In spite of himself, he approved.

“We don’t work much with the sword or grappling on the walls,” he said as he led Dean to the stairs. “On the walls, our aim is to shoot the enemy down before they can come within range. On occasion, we ride patrol—I assume you can ride?” He smiled slightly as Dean nodded. “Good. For the most part, however, you will rely on your bow, even on horseback. Should an enemy breech the walls, our primary objective is to disable, not to kill. A disabled enemy can be given to the palace torture-masters for questioning. A dead enemy is useless.”

“I understand, sir,” Dean said, his voice wooden.

They reached the ground floor, and Castiel led Dean out to the practice courts. “Archery first,” Castiel ordered, gesturing to the ranged targets at the end of one of the fields. “Convince me of your skills before we move on.”

Dean nodded and strung his bow, his hands steady. Castiel watched with a critical eye as Dean drew an arrow from the quiver and readied it, taking only a split-second to aim before shooting. The arrow buried itself dead-center in one of the farthest targets, rattling slightly with the impact before stilling.

It would be a lie to say that he was unimpressed. “Good,” Castiel said, wary of applying stronger praise. “Again.”

A second time, Dean strung his bow and loosed, hitting the center of a second target. Without being asked, he drew a third arrow, then a fourth, then a fifth. Each arrow hit its mark, though the fourth arrow was slightly to the left of the center—exactly in position to pierce a human heart.

“Michael was not wrong about your archery,” Castiel admitted when Dean reached for his sixth arrow. “Enough. We’ll move on, now.”

Dean nodded and replaced the arrow. Castiel gestured to another, fully empty court. “You have been trained in archery, and clearly in use of the sword,” he said, nodding at the weapon still strapped to Dean’s waist. “What else?”

Dean straightened, squaring his shoulders. “Hand to hand combat, both armed and unarmed,” he said. “Stealth movement. Pike and javelin, a bit on spear.”

Castiel nodded. “Pike, javelin, and spear will do you little good on the walls,” he said. “Stealth, too, is unnecessary. We are a defensive force, not an offensive one. Our enemy already knows where we are.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean said.

“Hand to hand, however, is a necessity.” Castiel led Dean to the empty court. “Do not put down your weapons or take off your boots,” he advised. “The Hellions won’t be courteous enough to allow you to prepare the way you would for a training session. When I come at you, defend yourself.” He paused for only the barest second before lunging.

Dean went down easy, landing hard on his back on the grouns. “If I were a Hellion, you would be dead,” Castiel said, pinning Dean’s shoulder to the ground and reaching for his knife.

“Yeah?” Castiel did not have time to brace himself before Dean moved, locking his legs around Castiel’s torso and rolling. Startled, Castiel barely had the presence of mind to keep hold of his knife as Dean flipped him, slamming him into the dust. Dean’s strong, hard palm seized Castiel’s wrist, immobilizing the hand that held the knife; his other hand pressed down against Castiel’s throat, too light to injure, but a clear warning. “Still dead?” he asked, his face splitting into a grin.

Castiel took a deep breath and met Dean’s eyes, swallowing hard. “No,” he said, his gaze tracking the tiny droplets of sweat that rolled down Dean’s golden face. He swallowed again, the barest flush rising in his cheeks as his loins stirred with interest. Damnit. “Let me up,” he ordered before he could embarrass himself. “We’ll do that again.”

Dean grinned and sat back for a split second before pushing off the ground and rising. Castiel stifled a groan as the man’s buttocks grazed his crotch, and hoped that Dean had moved too quickly to notice his untoward interest. Carefully, Castiel stood, dusting off his uniform. “I’m going to come at you with a weapon this time,” he warned Dean.

Dean managed to take him down when he came after him with a knife in hand, but a naked arrow seemed to throw Dean’s confidence, and Castiel took him down easily the first three times before Dean figured out how to avoid the point and flip Castiel the way he had the first time. Loathe to admit it as he was, Dean was good.

A part of Castiel knew that he should spar with Dean longer, test his stamina, but by the fifth time Dean pinned him to the ground and straddled his chest, he was forced to admit that the situation would become—awkward—should it continue. “You will spar with the newest Guards tomorrow,” Castiel said after waving Dean off his body and rising. “I will observe. They will attack you one on one and in groups, to see how you do. Be in the training yards at one, do you understand?”

Dean nodded, and Castiel continued. “Should you hold your own against the new members of the Guard, I will fit you into the rotation,” he said calmly. “We’re short many men on the walls.”

“Got it,” Dean said, reaching for a cloth to wipe his glistening face. Castiel glanced surreptitiously at the man, watching his muscles flex with every motion. How old was Dean, anyways? Surely he was old enough that Castiel’s thoughts, while inappropriate, did not cross the line into sinister.

It wasn’t as if he would ever act upon them, anyways. To engage in relations with one of his men would be scandalous.

In the distance, the castle bell rang three times. Castiel’s stomach growled fiercely, reminding him that he had never gotten the chance to finish his midday meal. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Starving,” Dean admitted, smiling sheepishly. “I was too nervous to eat this morning.”

Army soldiers were not known for their patience on an empty stomach. Castiel was surprised that Dean was so good-natured, even when hungry. “The main hall does not serve supper until the bell tolls eight times,” he said calmly. “The Guard, however, keeps odd hours. We have a small dining hall by the kitchens, if you would like to eat.”

Dean nodded eagerly, his green eyes brightening. Castiel’s stomach swooped, interested in spite of himself; he pushed the thought aside. “Can you show me where it is?” Dean asked. “The dining hall. The palace is sort of huge.”

He supposed it would seem that way to a newcomer. Having spent the past fifteen years in the palace, Castiel could find nearly any room in his sleep. “Of course. I imagine you’ll want to wash up and change your clothes before eating?” he asked politely.

From the surprise on Dean’s face, the idea had not even occurred to him. “That—that might be good. Yeah.” He fidgeted slightly. “I saw that I have a bath in my room, but where do I go to get water?”

Ah. Castiel had to admit that it was a fair question, for someone unused to palace ways. “I will take you to the steward’s office. He will send slaves with your water,” he explained.

“Right. Good,” Dean said, smiling nervously. Castiel made a mental note to ask Thaddeus to assign a slave to Dean’s rooms—running to and from the Steward’s and the quartermaster for every little task was unpleasant, and a waste of time to boot.

Their stop at the Steward’s office was brief, and Thaddeus promised to assign a slave to Dean’s rooms by the end of the night. Castiel promised to meet Dean at his rooms after their baths, and then took off for his own quarters, eager to soak his sore muscles. The boy in charge of his rooms knew to keep warm water waiting for his return, and Castiel was all too happy to sink into his tub and wash off the grime and sweat of the training fields.

Clean and relaxed, Castiel dressed quickly and made his way to Dean’s rooms. He knocked on the door twice before pushing it open. As Dean’s Captain, the idea that the man would refuse him entry was unthinkable.

Castiel almost regretted his decision as he caught sight of Dean through the open door. “Sir!” Dean yelped, clutching at the cloth around his waist, his muscled torso gleaming with droplets of water. Castiel swallowed hard and tore his eyes away from the sight before him, lest Dean catch him staring.

“Continue dressing,” he said, swallowing the sudden excess of saliva that threatened to spill from the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t as if he had never seen a naked man before, and he had seen men with broader shoulders and much slimmer waists than Dean’s. Men who should have been much more attractive, he told himself sternly, than a stocky commoner, no matter how beautiful his face. Something about Dean’s thick torso lingered in his mind, however. He could not help but wonder what it would feel like. Would it be hard and firm and rough, the body of a fighter, or would there be any pleasing give to his body? Would his skin, perhaps, be smooth, as unblemished as it was to the eye?

_Stop that,_ Castiel ordered himself firmly as heat pooled in his abdomen. This was not the time, or the place, or the person. There could be other men—more worthy men—later. He supposed it was simply Dean’s unfamiliarity, his novelty, that made his body react as it never had before. Or perhaps it was his own age. He was thirty-two after all—if not for his devotion to the Guard, he would surely be a married man at this stage in his life, whether anyone had piqued his interest or not.

But someday, surely someone more worthy would catch his attention. In the meantime, staring at a member of his Guard, however low his origins, was uncouth.

Dean stepped out of the bedroom, fully clothed and flushed pink. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t think to close the connecting door,” he said quietly, his cheeks darkening.

Castiel nodded, refusing to dwell on the appealing contrast of Dean’s flushed cheeks and otherwise golden skin. “It’s all right. You’ll remember next time,” he said gruffly. “Come with me.”

He led Dean down to the ground floor and towards the kitchens. The slave-on-duty in the corner jerked, her eyes flying open, as Castiel opened the door. “Master,” she said, bowing and ducking her head.

“Food for two from the kitchens. Something light, I think,” Castiel said. Eating heavily after training never went well. He sat down at the long wooden table as the girl scurried off and folded his hands in his lap.

Dean dropped carefully into a chair across from him, chewing idly at the corner of his mouth. Mesmerized, Castiel watched the motion of the man’s pink lips for perhaps a moment too long before drawing his eyes away. “Under whose command did you serve before coming to the palace?” he asked, more to fill the awkward silence than for any other reason.

“General Victor Henriksen’s,” Dean said.

Castiel nodded. He had heard of the esteemed general, of course. The entire kingdom knew the tale of Henriksen’s slaying of the great Hellion knight Lilith. It had seemed a turning point in the war for several months, while the Hellions had scrambled to regroup and strategize. Unfortunately, Castiel thought ruefully, it had done little good in the long term, but the few months of relative peace had been much needed at the time.

The door swung open again, and two slaves entered, both carrying trays. Castiel sighed with relief as one set plates and goblets before himself and Dean, and the other laid down a platter of seasoned gull. The floppy-haired wine-bearer stopped in his tracks for a brief moment, staring at Dean, but then he shook himself and filled Dean’s and Castiel’s goblets with a steady hand. As soon as the boy had moved out of his way, Castiel unsheathed his knife and carved out a large hunk of meat, dropping it on his plate. “Eat,” he reminded Dean, who stared at the food with distrustful eyes.

“It smells funny,” Dean commented, drawing his own knife and carving his own slice. “Like…” He frowned. “Herbs, but not normal herbs.”

Castiel nodded. “Spices,” he said, his lips twitching in a smile. He had lived so long in the palace, he sometimes forgot that certain luxuries were denied to those who lived outside—even on his own lands, they rarely kept more than a small amount of precious salt in the larder. “I suppose you’ve never had them.”

Dean peeled a strip of flesh away from his slab of meat and raised it carefully to his lips. His eyes widened as he nibbled tentatively at the food, and he crammed the rest of the piece into his mouth. “This is good!” he exclaimed, staring at Castiel. “It tastes like normal meat, but better!”

Castiel chuckled. “There’s a reason spices are so expensive,” he said, taking a bite of his own meat. Delicious. The kitchens could stand to prepare gull more often—it wasn’t as if the birds were uncommon.

“I can see that,” Dean said, cramming another piece of meat into his mouth. For the first time, as food spilled out the sides of his over-full mouth, he truly seemed like Castiel’s idea of a commoner. But then, if poor eating habits were the most uncouth thing about him, then Dean might well learn to integrate himself into noble society. “So good. Man, we didn’t even eat like this in the _army.”_

Castiel smiled slightly and took another bite of his gull. “Few do,” he remarked. “I do not eat like this on the rare occasions when I go home. It’s one of many things that makes living in the palace a luxury.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, I could get used to this,” he said, taking a long drink of his wine. “Is this a normal meal here?”

Castiel shrugged. “For proper meals, yes,” he said. “Suppers in the hall, and whatnot. As a member of the Guard, you’ll take some of your meals on the wall. Those will be simple.”

“Fair enough,” Dean said, stuffing another hunk of gull into his mouth.

They ate in comfortable silence after that, stripping the meat from the bones of the unfortunate bird and washing it down with wine. The wine-bearer kept sneaking looks at Dean, and Castiel briefly considered chastising him. He decided to let it slide. The slaves were not used to unfamiliar faces in the Guard’s dining room—it was probably mere curiosity. Castiel had never been one to punish slaves for curiosity, so long as they remained quiet and performed their duties.

He was comfortably full by the time they had peeled the last of the meat from the gull’s bones. Castiel rose, adjusting his tunic. “I won’t have you spar again until tomorrow,” Castiel said, laying a hand on Dean’s muscled shoulder and guiding him from the room. “However, it would be prudent for you to meet other members of the Guard.”

Dean nodded seriously. “Right,” he said. “Okay. Should we—now?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, pulling his hand from Dean’s shoulder and striding to the door that led to the outer courtyard. “Come. The sooner you meet your fellow Guards, the better.” _The less it will destroy cohesion,_ he thought wryly.

Still, Dean had defied most of his expectations today. Perhaps Michael had been right to choose him, Castiel mused. Perhaps all would go well after all.


	5. Toeing the Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael is very displeased that Gabriel has been associating with Lucifer. Gabriel takes custody of Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mentions of murder, grossly inappropriate use of human skin, attempted rape of a minor. Proceed with caution.

The sound of heavy boots inside the quiet sanctum of the library was never a good sign. Gabriel clenched his teeth and bent over his books, mouthing the words quietly to himself. He knew it was risky to keep reading, but what was life without a bit of risk? Michael could scream and rage all he liked about the importance of holding no god but the One Holy God to be true, but as he skimmed through a chapter on the religions practiced in Brahma, he could not help but find them fascinating. What was wrong with reading about their religious practices? It wasn’t as if he was going to convert.

Of course, if the footsteps belonged to Michael’s men, he might be in for worse than a lecture. Hastily, Gabriel closed the book and hid it at the bottom of his pile, dragging out a dull, dusty history of Asphodel. Brushing up on the culture of a potential ally—or a potential enemy, as it was—couldn’t be construed as a bad thing, could it?

The footsteps halted directly behind him. Definitely Michael’s men. With a sigh, Gabriel spun around in his chair, offering the pair of servants a cheeky grin. “What can I do for you two gentlemen?” he asked with false cheer.

“Crown Prince Michael wishes to speak with you,” one of the men said. Gabriel sighed—of course. Never a day of peace in this God-forsaken palace.

“Well, let’s not keep the big man waiting,” he said, reminding himself that the servants were not at fault for disrupting his quiet studies. He rose and shook out his robes, flashing his teeth. “Come on, then!” he said when the servants made no move to leave. “Take me to my brother. I can’t be expected to know where he is all the time, can I?”

Quietly, the servants turned in unison and walked out of the library. Gabriel trotted after them, his mind whirring. Nearly every single God-damned day in recent months, Michael found some cause to fuss at him. He wondered what it was this time? He’d been pretty quiet—no pranks, no snarky comments in front of important dignitaries. Holy God, he’d even attended morning prayers! What could have possibly set Michael off this time?

Then again, his brother wasn’t exactly slow to anger.

Gabriel’s stomach flipped nastily as the servants stopped in front of the palace tanner’s abode. “He’s inside,” one of them said, his eyes flicking nervously towards the door, his stoic mask slipping for the first time. Gabriel couldn’t blame the man. He took a deep breath to steel himself before pushing the door open, and tried not to gag as he stepped into the room.

The palace tanner, a rather unpleasant man named Lee, knelt by Michael’s feet, taking measurements. Behind him, his sister and assistant, Missy, was busy peeling long, thick sheets of flesh from a fresh human corpse. Gabriel swallowed bile—too many times, Michael wanted to speak in this room. Gabriel was no idiot—he knew exactly why Michael called for him at the tanner’s so often. It was a warning, a reminder of what would happen if he ever actually put so much as a toe over the line.

“Gabriel.” Michael smiled brightly, far too at-ease in a room that smelt of death and blood. His one bare foot rested easily in Lee’s hand, while the other wore a soft-looking, ankle-high boot. Gabriel had been present for the making of those boots—to this day, the sight of them made him cringe. Tessa had been a bit high-handed and rude, to be sure, but she wasn’t treacherous enough to deserve _that_ fate. Gabriel knew better than to buy Michael’s excuses—they had plenty of access to animal leather. No, Michael had his leather products made from human hides for _pleasure,_ for the feeling of power it gave him.

Not that Gabriel would ever say as much to his brother. He would rather not end up as a pair of boots himself, after all. Instead, he forced a smile and sat down on a stool next to Michael, wincing as the legs of the stool slipped slightly in blood. “Brother,” he said, inclining his head. “What’s the occasion?”

Michael laughed easily. “Can’t two brothers simply chat? I see you so rarely,” he said, leaning back against his soft, plush chair.

“I suppose they can,” Gabriel said, widening his smile. Always look happy and adoring in Michael’s presence, unless asked to look ashamed or abashed. He had learned that lesson well.

Michael did not respond, and Gabriel shifted awkwardly, his eyes catching upon the flayed corpse at the back. “Who’s that?” he blurted out, before stopping to wonder if he really wanted to know.

Michael shrugged. “It’s Adam,” he said calmly.

Gabriel gaped, horrified. “Your body-slave?” he asked, shocked.

Michael nodded, his face unreadable. “Yes. Father and I were discussing strategy regarding the war with Hell, and he happened to walk in. It’s unfortunate,” he said idly. “I could have simply had his tongue cut out, but regrettably, he knew how to write, and a slave without hands is useless. At least this way, he can live on in a useful fashion.” Michael shook his head, smiling slightly as Missy carried the long sheets of flesh over to a bloody counter. “The security of the kingdom comes first, and in any case, my boots have been getting stiff. I’ll get another body slave.”

Gabriel swallowed hard, the hair rising on the back of his neck. “Adam was loyal,” he said softly.

Michael shrugged. “True,” he agreed. “Still, Hellion spies have broken past our gates before. Had they taken him, they could have tortured him for information regarding our military strategy. This is safer.”

Gabriel clenched his teeth. “Whatever you think is best, of course,” he said when he had calmed himself enough to keep from exploding with fury. He’d tell Lucifer about this. Lucifer would ensure that the other slaves said rites for Adam in his absence, that the poor man did not go to the Holy God stricken and uncleansed.

“Correct,” Michael said, smiling. “It’s nice to hear you say that, for once.”

Gabriel frowned. He spent plenty of time kowtowing to Michael. “What do you mean?” he asked carefully.

Michael sighed and placed his foot on the ground as Lee released it, seemingly satisfied with his measurements. “Do I really have to say it?” he asked lightly, eyeing Gabriel.

Shit. With Michael, _breathing_ in the wrong direction could be construed as treason. Gabriel knew that. “Well, I don’t know what you’re talking about, so you’ll have to enlighten me,” he said.

Michael exhaled and folded his arms across his chest. “I know you’ve been consorting with Lucifer,” he said calmly. “Consorting with my would-be killer, as if he’s still your brother. And when I was away from the palace, unable to keep an eye on you, no less. I want to know why.”

Gabriel’s breath caught in his throat. Now, after nine years, Michael picked up on this? Damnit. Gabriel sent a quick prayer to the Holy God, asking for protection against his brother’s wrath. “I went to the kitchens for food,” he said, arranging his face into what he hoped was an innocent expression. “I was hungry, and the kitchen makes fritters on Tuesdays. I wanted some.”

Michael snorted, his eyes hardening. “And yet, you left with Lucifer and another slave,” he said coldly. “I want to know why. You’re not considering disobedience, are you, brother? I’ve rather liked knowing that I have one sibling who does not want my position, and I would hate to lose another brother to treachery and deceit.”

There was no way that this would end well. Gabriel gnawed at his inner cheek, thinking hard. “I did see Lucifer in the kitchens,” he said slowly. “And yes, I missed him. Nostalgia, if nothing else. Brother, even though you think—” He broke off. Michael didn’t _think_ of treason, he proclaimed it. If Michael called treason, whether it was real or not, it was the official cry of the Crown. Father was too sick to say otherwise. “Even after that incident, I remember him fondly. Riding together, hunting together, studying together—yes, I miss him. So I spoke with him.”

Michael nodded slowly. “You would rather he had killed me and taken my place,” he said softly.

“No!” Gabriel cried. It was a lie—he would rather that Michael was dead and Lucifer was free, any day, but he had just enough self-preservation to spew the pretty falsehoods his brother wanted to hear. “I just missed the days when we three were brothers, before Lucifer—before he betrayed you.” Betrayed. Right. A training accident was a betrayal.

Sighing, Michael closed his eyes. “So, rather than simply speaking with him briefly to indulge your nostalgia, you took him aside to speak to him without guard, in the presence of only another slave,” he said coolly. “How am I to know you were not planning treason with him?”

Gabriel gulped. Michael’s paranoia had never come to this conclusion before. “I wasn’t,” he said softly. “I—” How could he even explain it? “I have come to the realization that taking care of all my needs without help is an inconvenience,” he said, blurting out the first lie that came to mind. “I am considering taking a body-slave. I know you won’t allow me to pick Lucifer, and I respect that. However, one slave caught my eye, and I wanted Lucifer there as a neutral party, to help me gauge whether or not this boy would be worthy.”

Michael cracked an eyelid, looking curiously at Gabriel. “So, the abolitionist comes to the realization that slavery is a necessary institution?” he asked softly.

_No,_ Gabriel wanted to argue. Servants were one thing, as were caste and class systems. Still, he had started his lie, and he might as well continue with it. “I still don’t like slavery,” he said, shrugging. “But the servants all have their assigned tasks, and it would be cruel to ask one to give up the work they are accustomed to just to wait on my every whim. I might as well take a slave, just to minimize the inconvenience to everyone.”

He waited with bated breath, hoping that Michael would believe him. His brother did not relax; rather, he straightened his spine and leaned forward. “Is that so?” he asked. “And it has nothing to do with the girl who was burned that day?”

How deep did Michael’s network of spies run, anyways? Gabriel had hardly asked himself the question before he realized his folly. Of course Michael had eyes in every group of servants, in every slave’s quarters. His brother’s paranoia would not allow for anything less. “I did meet the slave I’m considering when dealing with the matter,” he said. “Is that so wrong?”

Michael chuckled mirthlessly. “No. I’m merely wondering why you didn’t choose the girl,” he said.

Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. In for copper, in for gold, he decided. “I don’t like the way Zachariah looks at the boy,” he said. “If I’m going to take a slave anyways, I may as well take one who’s in a dangerous situation and remove him from it.”

Michael snorted, rolling his eyes. “So what if Zachariah wants to get his kicks from a slave boy?” he asked dismissively. “You’d leave the kitchen short two if you pick him. Take the girl, Gabriel. She’s useless to the kitchens while burned, anyways.”

Did he dare defy Michael? Now that he’d spun his pretty lie about wanting a body slave, the idea of directly wresting Sam from Zachariah’s grip seemed very appealing. “Sorry, Michael, but I’ve made my decision,” he said firmly, clasping his hands together tightly. His brother wouldn’t execute him for this, he was certain. As a prince, he had the right to choose his own slaves from the palace barracks. “I’m speaking to Thaddeus about it tonight.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “Whatever pleases you,” he said. “It doesn’t matter much to me. But Gabriel?”

Gabriel clenched his hands together, his knuckles whitening. “Yes, Michael?” he asked, gritting his teeth.

“Do not let me hear of you consorting with Lucifer in private again.” Michael met his gaze and held it, his eyes flashing dangerously. “You may indulge your nostalgia in public, so long as you do not interfere with the slave’s work. Take him aside again, and I will be forced to assume that you’re planning treason.”

Gabriel bristled at Michael’s flippant reference to Lucifer’s undeserved status. He took a deep breath to calm himself, and forced a smile. “Yes, brother. My apologies for worrying you.”

Michael frowned at him. “You mock me,” he said slowly. “You think it unreasonable that I worry about my brother meeting with my would-be assassin.”

The words tumbled out of Gabriel’s mouth before he could stop them. “No, I just think it’s idiotic that you think Lucifer was trying to kill you,” he snapped. “He _worshipped_ you, Michael. He never wanted you dead. It was an accident, and you ruined him for it.”

Michael slammed his fist against his knee, glaring at Gabriel. “One more word, brother, and I will kill you where you sit,” he growled. “It would save the tanners the work of fetching your body, if you were to die in here.”

Gabriel ducked his head and took a deep breath, biting back the furious words he longed to throw at his brother. “Forgive me,” he said quietly. “I was out of line.”

“Yes, you were,” Michael snapped. “Know your place. You may be a prince by name and title, but you hold no real power in this kingdom. No one would blink if I ordered your execution. Honestly, I doubt many people would even notice.”

As if he didn’t know that. The reclusive, openly apolitical prince who disagreed with so many of Heavens laws? Few people gave Gabriel the time of day, unless he was explicitly in their presence. “I apologize,” he said, hoping he sounded contrite.

“You had best mean it,” Michael said coldly. “You’re dismissed. Take your supper in your rooms—I don’t want to see you again tonight.”

Gabriel half-leapt off the stool and bowed shortly to his brother. “Fare you well, then,” he said stiffly, turning on his heel and stalking out of the tanner’s.

Well, that had been worse than he had expected. He had never thought that his brother would catch on to his visits with Lucifer—although now that he thought about it, he should have guessed that Michael would find out. His spies were everywhere. With a sigh, Gabriel trudged back towards the library, his desire to study gone. He would put his books away, and then he would go and speak with Thaddeus. Might as well play out his charade.

Gabriel was halfway to the library when the sound of running feet sounded in the hall. “Your Highness!” a loud, feminine voice shouted. Gabriel frowned—Michael hadn’t followed him, so they couldn’t be calling for his brother. He turned around, coming face to face with Missouri from the kitchens, Lucifer hot on her heels. “Your Highness,” Missouri panted, clutching her bosom.

“Missouri,” Gabriel said, frowning. “Lucifer? Brother, I’m forbidden to speak to you in private—”

“There’s no time for that,” Lucifer said tightly. Gabriel met his brother’s eyes, and was startled to see that one was swollen shut, bruised purple and splattered with droplets of blood that dripped from a cut in his forehead. “It’s Zachariah. He’s gone after Sam. None of us can stop him.”

Shit. Of all the God-cursed, Hell-dreamt things to happen now! “What happened?” he demanded, taking off for the kitchens at half a run.

“Boy knocked over a stack of pots,” Missouri said, panting slightly as she jogged to keep up with him. “Old Zach got angry. Dragged him off to one of the storage rooms to punish him, but we all know there’s not whips in there. We—” she gasped for breath for a moment before continuing. “We all know what he’s doing, but none of us got the authority to stop him.”

It would be improper to murder Zachariah, Gabriel reminded himself, as he picked up to a full sprint, running towards the kitchens. He knew he was a failure. He had failed his brother, failed his father, failed himself—damnit, he would not fail this boy, this child he had promised to protect. He’d hoped that Lucifer had been wrong about Zachariah’s intentions—it seemed he was not.

Gabriel burst through the doors of the kitchen, staring around wildly. The normally lively atmosphere was subdued, the slaves and servants completely silent. He could just hear muffled noises coming from the store room, too-audible over the uneasy hush. “Move,” Gabriel snapped at a servant standing in his way, striding across the kitchens and throwing open the storeroom door.

Zachariah stood with his back to the door, pinning Sam to the wall with his bulk, one hand over the boy’s mouth and the other fumbling with his belt. Sam’s face was turned just enough that Gabriel could see the tears streaming down his cheeks; he clenched his teeth, furious. At least he wasn’t too late—but it felt like he was. He had promised to protect this boy, and he had failed him. “Zachariah!” Gabriel roared furiously.

The man jumped and dropped Sam, turning around to stare at Gabriel. “Your Highness!” he yelped, waving his hands nervously. Behind him, Sam wrapped his thin arms around his chest and sank to the ground, crying silently.

“That is not an approved way to discipline slaves,” Gabriel growled, taking a step towards the head cook. “What in the name of the Holy God were you thinking?”

Zachariah blinked and offered him a weak smile. “Your Highness, it’s a well-known practice to take liberties with attractive slaves,” he said, tripping over his words slightly. “I would have taken him to my bed anyway—I figured, why not get the first time out of the way as a lesson, rather than whipping him raw?”

Gabriel snarled and took another step forward, clenching his fists. “Well-known practice or not, it is unacceptable,” he hissed. “I forbid it! You do not lay your hands on palace slaves, on _my_ slaves, in such a manner. Do you understand me?”

Zachariah stared at him. “The King would have to give such an order, or the Crown Prince,” he said finally. “With all due respect, Your Highness, there is neither law nor policy prohibiting free men from taking their leisure with slaves, especially when there is no chance of pregnancy. As you can see, in this case—” he waved a careless hand at Sam “—I can hardly get the boy pregnant.”

Unbelievable. Gabriel took a few more steps forward, until he was almost nose-to-nose with the cook. “You will not touch him,” he snapped. “In fact, you won’t go near him ever again. I’m taking custody of him.”

Zachariah had the gall to laugh, then, and Gabriel clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms. “You can’t be serious,” the cook said finally. “Everyone knows you don’t keep personal slaves, Your Highness. You’re breaking your code now, over some boy?”

“Damn straight I am,” Gabriel growled. He shoved past Zachariah and crouched beside Sam, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. Sam flinched violently, his head flying up; he stared at Gabriel, watery eyes dull and red-rimmed. “Hey, kiddo,” Gabriel said softly, sliding his hands under Sam’s armpits and helping him to his feet. “You all right?”

Sam shook his head, swaying where he stood. “He’s gonna… He’s gonna…” He broke off, staring at the floor. “I’m sorry. For being hysterical.”

Yeesh. Gabriel sighed and slung an arm around Sam’s shoulders, guiding him past Zachariah and out the door. “He’s not ‘gonna’ do anything,” he assured the boy, steering him out of the kitchen. “Come on. We’re going to see Thaddeus.”

Sam stared resolutely at the floor. “Why?” he asked quietly, and then flinched. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry, master.”

Shit. Gabriel halted and turned to face Sam, laying both hands gently on his shoulders. “I’m having you removed from the kitchens,” he said softly. “I’m taking you on as my body slave, understand? Zachariah is never going to lay a hand on you again.”

Sam’s breath hitched; he swiped furiously at his eyes. “You don’t have to do that,” he muttered. “I’d have been okay. It happens to others all the time, you know? I was just—I was just scared of it hurting. But I’d have lived.”

Gabriel knew a lie when he heard one. His heart thudded painfully in his oddly tight chest, and he squeezed Sam’s shoulders gently. “You don’t have to be stoic around me,” he said gently. “What Zach was doing—it’s wrong, Sam. I know it, and you know it too. Don’t stand on ceremony and lies around me, all right? I’m not letting you get hurt—my word as a prince, if that means anything to you.” Belatedly, he realized that it was probably not much of a reassurance. It was highly unlikely that the kid had many good experiences with nobles and their promises.

Sam took a shaky breath and nodded. “Okay,” he said, his voice subdued. “Thank you, master.”

“None of that ‘master’ crap,” Gabriel said briskly, releasing the boy’s shoulders. “Come on. Thaddeus is probably still in his office, and I’d like to catch him before he goes to supper.”

Sam straightened slightly, staring at the floor. Good enough, Gabriel decided. He strode through the corridors to Thaddeus’s office, keeping several steps ahead of Sam. Without bothering to knock, he pushed open the door to the steward’s domain and stepped inside.

Thaddeus sat hunched over a stack of paper; he barely glanced up when Gabriel entered the room. “What can I do for you, Your Highness?” he asked distractedly.

“I need you to make a note of a slave’s change in duties,” Gabriel said firmly. That got a reaction; Thaddeus glanced up sharply, surprise written all over his face. “I’m removing this slave—” he gestured at Sam “—from the kitchens. He’s to be my personal body-slave.”

Thaddeus sighed and pushed his chair away from his paper-strewn desk. “May I ask what drove our palace abolitionist to take on a slave?” he asked, ill-concealed disdain coloring his voice.

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “That’s my business,” he said firmly. “Just sign the papers.”

“I’m looking,” Thaddeus said, opening the doors to a high wooden cabinet. “Just need to find his file. What’s his number?”

Gabriel glanced at Sam. “What’s your processing number?” he asked quietly.

“28-06-15-5,” Sam replied softly. Bought on June 15th, the 28th year of his father’s reign, at age five. Gabriel shivered. Too young—not that any age was old-enough to be sold as a slave.

“He’s 28-06-15-5,” Gabriel said, knowing that Thaddeus would not listen to a slave’s words.

Thaddeus nodded and shuffled several folders around, before drawing out a thin sheaf of paper. “Been in the kitchens since we bought him,” the man said with disinterest, flipping open the folder. “Marginally well-behaved. Primarily disciplined for offenses such as spilling drinks, knocking over objects, and wasting food and water. You’re sure you want this one?” he asked, glancing at Gabriel.

“Yes,” Gabriel said firmly. “Sign the papers.”

Thaddeus sighed and scrawled something on Sam’s file. “Signed and approved,” he said, sounding bored. “He’s all yours, Your Highness.”

“Excellent. Thank you.” Gabriel laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder and steered him from the room. “There, see, was that so bad?” he asked, forcing cheer into his voice.

Sam shook his head. “Thank you, sir,” he said quietly.

They walked to Gabriel’s rooms in silence. Gabriel waved Sam inside his large sitting room, covered with dust and clutter, a testament to his messy habits and lack of slaves. Gabriel dropped into his favorite armchair with a sigh and waved for Sam to sit across from him. Sam hesitated before perching awkwardly on the edge of the chair. “Guess I should give you the run-down on how this is going to work, huh?” Gabriel asked, offering Sam a reassuring smile.

Sam nodded, staring at the floor. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “First of all, seriously. It’s Gabe, or Gabriel. You can call me sir when other nobles are around, I guess. I’ve said it before—I don’t like slavery. Taking you on is making the best of a bad situation, but I don’t follow traditional master-and-slave protocol, you got it?”

“Yes s—Gabriel.”

Better. Gabriel grinned. “Was that so hard?” he asked. “Okay, so. Basically, you’re in charge of keeping my rooms clean, getting water for my baths—I’ll tell you when I’m going to take a bath, so don’t just assume—and taking my laundry down to the laundresses. Um, I guess you’ll serve me in the banquet hall, when I eat there. Other assorted tasks, like fetching food, or having my horses prepared, I’ll let you know when I need something like that. It’s pretty basic stuff.”

Sam glanced at him, his expression guarded. “What else?” he asked quietly.

What else was there? Gabriel frowned. “You’ll sleep in the slave quarters in my rooms. They’re probably pretty dusty, but they should be furnished. I’ll send you to get some changes of clothes tomorrow, so don’t worry about going back to the barracks. Apart from that, um, I guess you stick with me most of the time. I spend a lot of time in the library, so feel free to read anything that seems interesting when you’re there.”

Something that might have been a laugh sounded in the back of Sam’s throat. “I can’t read, si—I can’t read,” he said, staring at the floor.

Oh. Gabriel slapped himself mentally—if the kid was bought when he was five, of course he couldn't read. “Okay, well, I’ll teach you. I've got a lot of free time,” Gabriel said. “If you want to learn, that is.”

Sam looked up sharply, his face brightening. Gabriel blinked, taken aback—he hadn't quite expected that reaction. “Really?” Sam asked, a note of longing creeping into his voice. “You—you’ll really teach me to read?”

Gabriel swallowed hard. “Of course, kiddo,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “You’d get mighty bored spending all this time with me, otherwise.”

Sam exhaled, staring at Gabriel, his eyes sparkling. _“Thank you,”_ he breathed.

Gabriel nodded, a lump forming in his throat. “You’re welcome,” he said, reaching out to pat Sam lightly on the shoulder. As he glanced at the boy, another thought occurred to him. “One more thing,” he said seriously. “You know Crown Prince Michael?”

Sam nodded. “I—I know who he is,” he said cautiously.

“All right.” Gabriel caught Sam’s eyes and held his gaze. “This is important. Steer clear of him. If Michael sends for me, you go straight to my rooms and lock yourself in your quarters. I don’t care what you were doing before, I don’t care if you were in the middle of a task. If Michael calls, you hide, got it?”

Sam gulped. “I understand,” he said.

“Good.” Gabriel grinned. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving, and Michael banned me from the hall for the night.” He shook his head. “Fortunately, this isn’t so unusual,” he said, rising from his chair and opening the door to a small cabinet of provisions. The kitchen couldn’t run at all hours, after all. He seized a loaf of bread and a hunk of cloth-wrapped cheese, tossing them on the table before reaching back into the cabinet to pull out a bundle of jerky. “I keep plates and knives with the wine in the cabinet over on the edge of the room. Get two of each, and pour wine for two.”

Sam scrambled to obey, laying out the plates and knives carefully on a low table in the center of the room. He pulled a large glass bottle of wine from the cabinet and poured two goblets, setting one at each plate.

Gabriel sat down and motioned for Sam to join him. “Eat up,” he said, smiling. “I don’t usually have company during my little banishments, so this is a nice change. Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

Sam blinked at him, reaching slowly for the bread. “I suppose I can do that,” he said slowly, nibbling at the bread. “What do you want to know?”


	6. Swords and Sales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean attempts to settle into life at the palace, and a quick trip into the city leaves him reeling.

Meeting with the Royal Guard passed in a whir of names and titles and faces that Dean did not think he would ever be able to keep straight. Most of them seemed wary— _guarded,_ Dean thought, suppressing a laugh—which he supposed was reasonable. None of them knew him, any more than he knew them. Newcomers to an army squad were usually treated with suspicion. Dean told himself that he wasn’t offended—it was reasonable to be cautious.

Of course, there were those few who looked at him like a cockroach on the bottom of their boots. Dean had to stop himself from making a face at Castiel’s second-in-command, Hannah, when she took Castiel aside to discuss his inclusion in the Guard. Apparently she thought he didn’t have ears. Or maybe she just didn’t care if he heard words like “common trash” and “ill-bred peasant” spill from her lips.

Whatever. Nothing in Dean’s life had ever been easy. He had worked hard for his position in the army, pushed himself to the absolute limit to hone his skills in fighting. The guards didn’t have to like him. He would prove himself in battle, and that would be that. See how the prissy nobles felt, having a low-born ennobled commoner stand and fight as well as the best of them—no, better than the best of them.

Castiel had barely finished taking him around the walls to meet with the current shift of guards when the bells tolled for dinner. The spiced gull seemed to have been years ago, and Dean’s stomach gave an approving growl as he followed Castiel into the main banquet hall. Nerves fluttered in his stomach—he had no idea what constituted palace dining protocol—but he guessed he would get used to it. He’d have to.

Castiel directed him to one of the tables placed midway through the room, where a few members of the Guard mingled with well-dressed persons. “The minor nobility,” Castiel said quietly. “You will eat with them, and you probably ought to just return to your rooms after supper. I will fetch you to spar against your fellow guards tomorrow.”

Dean nodded and took a seat at the edge of the table, glancing around. Behind him, servants sat at slightly lower tables, mingling and gossiping among themselves. Around him, and in front of him, nobles in fancy clothes chatted in small groups at their respective tables, and at a tall dais at the back of the room sat those who Dean assumed were members of the Royal family. He caught a glimpse of Michael, seated to the right of an imposing, throne-like chair—empty, he noted. He supposed it was the King’s chair. The chair to the left of the King’s was empty as well—perhaps it belonged to the long-dead queen, or another absent member of the Royal family? Dean glanced down at his empty plate before looking up again. Castiel had settled himself beside the dark-skinned woman next to Michael; Dean ducked his head before the Captain could catch him staring.

Dean glanced up again when someone plunked down beside him, smiling. “Hello,” the newcomer said, his pleasantly accented voice colored with amusement. “So, you’re the new one, are you? The little peasant our dear Crown Prince dragged from his fields and family, to sit in the palace with the big boys?”

Dean clenched his teeth, glaring slightly at the noble. “Not quite,” he said tersely, meeting the man’s light eyes. “Haven’t done much with fields in years. I was in the army.”

The man chuckled. “Of course. My mistake,” he said, offering Dean his hand. “Balthazar Angeli, not to be mistaken for a member of the Angili family. If I’ve heard that misconception once, I’ve heard it upon every meeting.”

Dean nodded, gripping the man’s hand for a brief moment before pulling away. “So, no relation to the Acting Captain,” he said shortly.

Balthazar grinned. “None whatsoever, which means that maybe someday I’ll get him in my bed. Or not. Still, one can dream.”

Well. Dean flushed, staring at the table. “That doesn’t seem like appropriate dinner conversation,” he said stiffly.

“Oh, do lighten up,” Balthazar said, chortling. “Wow, I suppose it’s not true what they say about the army—here I thought soldiers were that raunchy sort, always bragging about their conquests.  Don’t you know that at least half of palace conversation is all about who’s having an affair, who wants to get with some lucky individual, and which unlucky ladies are about to enter arranged marriages to ensure that their children are born legitimate?” He leaned forward and winked at Dean. “If you ask me, once all the hubbub about your birth status blows over, you’ll be _quite_ the subject of gossip.”

Dean was spared the need to answer when a line of slaves streamed in from the kitchens, bearing platters of food and jugs of wine. They set the food down on the tables and poured large goblets of wine, though no one moved to eat. Confused, Dean was about to ask Balthazar why no one was eating, when Michael rose from his chair and stood, his powerful voice filling the entire hall as he spoke.

“Holy God, we ask your blessing upon this food given to us, the fruits of this land and of your benevolence and mercy. We praise you for the prosperity you have granted us, and resolve to uphold your Holy Cause and Divine Will in behaving with proper propriety, with mindfulness of station and duty to You ever in our hearts and minds. Let us praise You in every bite we take of this blessed food, and let us devote the life-giving energy it grants us towards worshipping You, and defeating the Hellion hordes that would so desecrate you. It is with You in mind that we partake of Your gifts, always and forever, until You come to claim us, and beyond.”

“He’s always so dry about it,” Balthazar muttered as Michael sat down, leaning forward to grab a slab of cheese from the platter before him.

Focused on food, it was easy enough to tune Balthazar out. Cheese and bread, then hare, then boar, then venison—Dean had never in his life had so much meat in one sitting. He ate with gusto, acknowledging Balthazar’s ramblings with occasional grunts and nods.

It was easily the most filling supper Dean had ever had, and his stomach protested with uncomfortable fullness when Michael finally rose and called for a prayer to end the meal. Dean was sure he was waddling as he fumbled his way through the palace halls and back to his rooms. He dressed for sleep and forced himself to drag a cloth soaked in vinegar and rosemary over his teeth, before stumbling to his bed and collapsing atop the sheets. His full stomach pressed comfortably against the soft mattress, and he barely remembered to put out the oil lamp on his bedside table before closing his eyes and allowing sleep to overtake him.

0o0o0o0o0

Dean woke as the morning bells tolled six times. A glance out his open window provided a stunning view of the sun, just beginning to peek over the horizon. Dean yawned and stretched, luxuriating in the feel of soft woolen blankets beneath his body. He could get used to this, he decided. Neither his home nor the army barracks had ever been quite as pleasant as this room.

He rolled lazily out of bed and took his time in dressing. With several hours to spare before he had to meet with members of the Guard, he left his rooms and wandered the halls. When he was sure he could get back to his rooms without getting lost, he made for the door to the training yards. He might as well take the time to figure out how to get to the stables, and spend some time visiting with Impala.

Merely crossing the yards and passing through the gate to get to the stables took Dean far longer than seemed reasonable. From a distance, the large wooden building had seemed intimidating, but up close, the vast, imposing structure was enough to take his breath away. Golden gilding on the doors to a stable couldn’t be necessary, Dean thought. His entire village was probably worth less than this single building.

Impala stuck her head over the stall door and nickered as Dean approached. Dean’s lips stretched in a grin as he unbolted the door and slid into the stall. “Hey there, Baby,” he murmured, rubbing her forehead. “Pretty sweet place, isn’t it? Way better than that crappy old barn back at the barracks, huh?”

He spent several minutes lavishing attention on the horse before ducking out of the stall and wandering the stable until he found the tack room. Bucket of brushes in hand, he returned to Impala’s stall and settled into grooming the mare, gently murmuring to her as he brushed her already shining coat and cleaned her immaculate hooves. He supposed that there were probably stable hands to attend to her grooming, but there was just something soothing about caring for his horse himself. She was more than just some animal, after all.

There was certainly time for a quick ride, and a glance out the stall window showed a vast expanse of forest only a few hundred yards away. No doubt they were the King’s fabled hunting grounds. Royals and the nobility could hunt there, though commoners had to pay for the privilege; Dean had no intention of hunting today, and even had he the desire, he supposed he would no longer have to fork over good coin. “Let’s get you set up,” he said to Impala, grinning.

Saddling the mare came as easily as breathing. Dean led her outside and mounted up, taking off for the forest at a brisk canter. The place was clearly kept up by gardeners; no forest path grew so wide and open naturally. Dean didn’t mind—it meant he could ride fast. Impala, certainly, seemed thrilled to stretch her legs, tossing her head and even throwing in a few good-natured bucks at particularly well-kept passages.

It was nearly noon when Dean returned to the stables, streaked in nearly as much sweat as his horse. “How’s that for a workout, Baby?” he asked, patting Impala’s neck and dismounting. A quiet boy in dirty slave’s clothes sidled up, holding his hands out for the reins. Dean frowned, but passed Impala off. “Cool her down and groom her well,” he said awkwardly, unused to giving orders. The boy bowed silently and led Impala away.

It was strange to not take care of his horse himself, but with barely more than an hour until he was expected in the training fields, Dean supposed it made sense. He returned to his rooms and requested bath water from the girl assigned to his quarters, then went to put out training clothes and check his weapons while he waited. Everything seemed to be in order. Now, he only had to prove himself.

0o0o0o0o0

For the Kingdom’s so-called elites, the Guards were—well, not very good, Dean thought wryly. They wouldn’t last three days in one of General Henriksen’s squads. He took down the last of his six attackers easily and tapped her on the temple with the hilt of his blade, symbolically knocking her out. The woman scowled, but went still beneath him. Grinning, Dean stood and turned around, catching Castiel’s eyes.

The Acting Captain inclined his head solemnly. “You did very well, Dean,” he said, his gravelly voice slow, measured. “A bit weak with the swordsmanship, but you have more than held your own. I will place you in rotation on the walls starting next week.”

Dean grinned and nodded. “Thank you, sir,” he said cheerfully.

Castiel motioned Dean forward. “Some of the problem is the inferior quality of your sword,” he said quietly. “It’s quite all right,” he added as Dean opened his mouth to protest. “Army commoners are given what swords are cheap and readily available. But you are of the nobility, now. You will need better.” He pressed a leather purse into Dean’s hand, coins clinking dully from inside the bag. “I would send you to the palace smithy, but I find that a shop in the city run by two commoners called Spangler and Zeddmore in the city has higher quality weapons. The owners are—” his eyes crinkled with amusement “—obnoxious, but they will serve you well. Go to them, and buy a sword. You know what to look for in quality?”

Dean nodded slowly. “I think so,” he said.

“Good. See it done.” Castiel turned crisply and motioned for the six members of the Guard to come forward. “That was disgraceful,” he said dryly. “I expected him to do well, but not _that_ well, not against you. You will each submit yourselves for extra training until I am satisfied that you have improved.”

Dean left to the sweet sound of Castiel berating the Guards—his fellow Guards now, he supposed. Awesome. Dean slipped the purse of coins into his pocket and made for the stables, whistling tunelessly. No sooner had he entered the building than one of the hostlers scurried off to the tack room, emerging with his gear. “A long ride, my lord?” the man asked warily.

_My Lord._ The title sounded wrong, somehow. “Just going into the city,” Dean said, smiling at the man, who stared back at him, stone-faced. Huh. Dean wondered if he would get this sort of reaction from everyone. “Hey, listen,” he said as he took the saddle from the man. “Can you tell me how to get to a weapons shop called Spangler and Zeddmore?"

0o0o0

Not an hour later, Dean had visited the shop, argued with its owners, and at last emerged with a ready-made sword forged high-quality tempered steel belted to his hip, and a reluctant promise by the shop owners to have a custom-made sword ready for him in two weeks. “Cas wasn’t kidding about them being obnoxious,” he muttered to Impala, then frowned. Cas? Where had _that_ come from?

Oh well. As long as he didn’t use the nickname to the man’s face, it couldn’t hurt. Dean unhitched Impala and mounted up, clucking softly as he directed the mare back towards the palace.

A commotion to his left caught his attention, and Dean stilled, listening. That was a child, a child screaming. Frowning, he tugged gently on the reins and trotted towards the source of the noise, his eyes narrowing as a large platform and a crowd of people came into view. He dismounted and led Impala forward, straining to get a better look.

Dean swallowed back nausea as a burly man roughly dragged a young toddler off the platform and another pulled a middle-aged woman up by a collar around her throat. A slave auction. Dean shuddered, bile rising in his throat. Holy God, he’d never wanted to see one of these. Transfixed with horror, he stared as the crowd jeered and threw up numbers, oblivious to the misery on the woman’s face, the way her eyes darted around as though looking for some salvation.

“Ain’t seen you around here before,” a soft voice said to Dean’s left. He jumped slightly and turned his head, meeting the eyes of a large, bearded man. “You lookin’ to buy, or just to watch?”

Dean swallowed hard. “Neither,” he said roughly. “I heard a kid scream. Thought something was going on.”

The man chuckled bitterly. “Yeah, somethin’s going on. Nasty stuff, too. ‘Course, can’t let my employers hear me sayin’ that.” He glanced at the stage, his eyes hard. “Hate it when there’s kids. Hate the whole nasty business, but I reckon you don’t want to hear about that.”

Dean shook his head. “I’ve got no love for slavery,” he said quietly. “I get that it’s necessary, but I don’t really like it. Seems wrong, somehow.”

“Yeah?” the man asked, raising an eyebrow. “Couldn’t be anything to do with sellin’ off innocent people to a fate worse than death, could it?”

Dean shifted, running a hand over Impala’s neck to ground himself. In the distance, an announcer cried “Sold!” and the woman was led off the stage, to be replaced by a man with rippling muscles. “You hate it so much, why do you work here?” he asked curiously.

The man laughed mirthlessly. “Well, I guess my accent’s faded enough, you can’t tell,” he said. “Name’s Benny Lafitte. Ain’t a Heavenly name, now is it? I’m from Purgatory.” He glared ahead, staring past Dean. “Twelve years ago, slavers raided my camp. Took my wife, Andrea. Now, I couldn’t have that, but once they got her into Heaven, she was good as gone. ‘Cept I tracked her down, found her here.” A muscle in his jaw leapt, and he was silent for a long moment. “They was sellin’ her off—my _wife._ Couldn’t have that, but didn’t have the money to buy her. So, I made a trade. I got eight years left on my debt to these slavers, but ‘s long as I work for them, Andrea stays free, and when my debt’s been paid, I can take her home.” He sighed, shaking his head. “What about you, brother? What makes you think this lovely practice is wrong?” he asked sardonically.

Dean froze, his muscles locking at the word _brother—_ because oh, how it hit too close to home. “My dad sold my baby brother to pay off the family debt,” he said quietly. “It was a good trade. Got to keep the house, get a new horse, even send me to military school.” He forced a smile. “Really good trade, actually. Got through some ranks in the army, and then the Crown Prince came looking for muscle. Made me a Baron. Wouldn’t have happened if Dad hadn’t done what he did. I mean, if he hadn’t sold Sammy, we’d both been repossessed as slaves.”

Benny clacked his tongue, looking skeptical. “If you’d been from a civilized country, wouldn’t have even been a problem,” he said pragmatically.

Dean snorted—who called Purgatory civilized? He guessed a native would, but assorted sundry nomadic tribes and families roaming about an unending forest, answering to a cannibalistic madman, hardly sounded like civilization. “Yeah, well, is what it is,” he said gruffly. He didn’t like thinking about it, didn’t like the guilt, the longing, the terror that accompanied his thoughts of Sammy.

And yet… Benny said he’d been here for twelve years. Dad had sold Sam nine years ago. Dean chewed the inside of his cheek, wondering if he even wanted to ask. “So,” he said finally, hoping he sounded casual despite the tremor in his voice. “You guys get a lot of kids through here?”

Benny glanced at him sharply. “Time to time,” he said warily.

Dean nodded. “About nine years ago, did any kids come through here? Real young, five years old.”

The man sighed. “Yeah, had a bunch like that. Ain’t uncommon,” he said. “I know what you’re getting at. I'm guessing your brother was sold in the Capital, which means he came through here. Don’t mean I remember him, though.”

Of course. It was stupid to even try. Still, the thought that maybe, just maybe, he could find out what had happened to Sammy—he couldn’t pass it up. “Can you try?” he asked hopefully. “Five year old kid. Kinda chubby, floppy brown hair all in his face?”

Benny frowned. “Yeah, I remember a kid like that,” he said slowly. “What’d you say your brother’s name was, again?”

Dean gulped. “Sammy,” he said softly. “His name was Sam.”

Benny exhaled sharply. “Are you, what was it..." He trailed off, his forehead wrinkling. "You Dean?” he asked finally.

Dean froze, his breath catching in his throat, his mind whirring. “Y-yeah,” he stuttered, his voice trembling. “Yeah, I’m Dean.”

Benny nodded, his eyes sad. “Yeah. Can’t forget your brother, no matter how bad I want to,” he said quietly. “Way he cried, way he kept insisting you were gonna come and save him—I actually considered adding time to my debt to get him out too.” He snorted. “’Course, if I did that for every kid that broke my heart like that, I’d have to live a thousand years here.”

Dean swallowed hard, his stomach churning. All these years, he’d managed to keep his thoughts of Sam to a minimum—damnit. Asking had been a terrible idea. What had he been hoping to accomplish, exactly? “Is he—” he croaked, his voice cracking. “Do you know—do you remember—”

Benny, seemingly taking pity on him, shook his head. “I don’t remember who bought him,” he said quietly. “We keep records up to a year, but that was nine years ago. No way we still have his bill of sale.”

Something itched at the back of Dean’s eyes, and no, damnit, he wasn’t going to cry. It had been nine years—he should be over the loss of his brother! “Do you remember anything at all?” he asked quietly.

Benny frowned, his brow furrowing. “Well, I can tell you he got bought by someone okay,” he said slowly. “Wasn’t a kiddie-toucher or someone that works their slaves to an early grave. So odds are, he’s probably alive, might even be okay, far as slaves go. Just don’t remember a name, or where he lives. Sorry I can’t tell you any more than that.”

The idea that Sam could have been bought by a pedophile or a murderer hadn’t even occurred to Dean. He swallowed hard, forcing down the urge to vomit. “Well, that—that’s good,” he said roughly.

“Listen, brother.” Benny laid a gentle hand on his arm. “I know it ain’t much, but I can’t forget that kid’s eyes, even after all these years. He ain’t been back here, so unless he got sold at some other market, or privately, he’s still with the same master. He ends up back here, I’ll send someone for you, all right?”

Dean nodded, and Benny offered him a sad smile. “Where do you live?” he asked quietly.

“The palace, right now,” Dean said roughly. “Guess I’m technically the Baron of Kansas, but I've got no idea when I'll get the chance to go back. Name’s Dean Winchester. Well. Baron Dean Winchester.” The words felt odd on his tongue.

Benny inclined his head agreeably. “Well, My Lord, if he comes through here again, I’ll put him on hold for you. Afraid it’s the best I can do.”

His throat tight with emotion, Dean nodded. “Yeah,” he said roughly. “Thanks.”

He couldn’t stand to stay at the market a moment longer. Dean tugged Impala’s reins, perhaps a bit more harshly than necessary, and led her away from the slave trader. The weight of his sword dragged at his side as he clumsily mounted his horse, but it was nothing compared to the stone in his chest as he directed Impala back towards the palace.

He had come so far, become so much more than he had ever expected, but at what price? His brother’s life? Dean had spent nine years burying his grief, his rage, his resentment and fear. Strange, how one day, one chance encounter, could bring back all that pain.

Numbly, Dean guided Impala back to the palace and rode her back to the stables. He shrugged off the hostler who offered to take her and led her back to her stall, reaching for the brushes still left in the aisle with shaking hands. Three groomings in one day—well, it didn’t hurt. He took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of horse, struggling to lose himself in the rhythmic strokes of the brush over a smooth coat.

Impala, seemingly sensing his distress, nuzzled Dean’s shoulder and nickered. “’M okay, baby,” Dean whispered, his voice cracking. Alone, with no one but the horse and maybe a few scattered slaves to witness his shame, he allowed the tears to fall at last. “I’m okay. I’m okay, and I’m so, so lucky, and I’m so _angry,_ baby girl. So angry at Dad, at the whole situation.”

Impala lipped Dean’s shirt, a trail of slime trickling down the front of his leather tunic. Dean laughed hollowly and leaned against the mare’s strong black side. “It was worth it, right?” he asked quietly, shakily. “Worth it for all this, where we got, right?”

Warm breath blew over his face as Impala huffed, butting him lightly with her snout. Dean took a deep breath and threw his arms around the horse’s neck, burying his face in her mane. “It was the right choice,” he whispered. “I know it was.”

Dad had made the right choice—Dean knew it. The whole situation was worth it in the end, wasn’t it?


	7. The Spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grateful to Gabriel, Sam wants nothing more than to serve his new master. Unfortunately, the Crown Prince takes notice of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Threats, mention of murder, slight mention of attempted rape, mention of inappropriate use of human skin.

Sam woke with a start, his eyes darting around the unfamiliar room. Not the barracks, he realized, taking a deep breath and relaxing back against his thin pillow. It hadn’t been a dream.

He’d seen Dean, here, in the palace. Dean, of all people! Not twenty minutes after he’d been sent back to the kitchens, he’d been called upon to serve wine in the Guard’s hall, and—well. It seemed his brother was the new noble the servants had all been gossiping about.

And Dean hadn’t recognized him.

Sam took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He wasn’t sure what was worse—that Dean hadn’t recognized him, or what had happened after.

Anyone would be distracted after such an unexpected encounter, and he knew that. But slaves didn’t have the right to be distracted, not while working. After he had knocked over that stack of pots, chipping three, he’d known he was in for punishment. It was just, he had expected to be whipped, not dragged into the storeroom and—

It didn’t matter. His new master had come for him. Against all odds, he had kept his promise, had saved Sam from Zachariah’s lust. A tiny smile crossed Sam’s face, and he rolled over, hugging his pillow. He had friends among his fellow slaves, certainly, and some of them were the sort who would defend him when necessary. Never once had he expected that someone so exalted, someone with actual power to do something, would go out of their way to help him.

His master shifted audibly in the next room, and Sam realized he had lazed about long enough. He rose quietly and shook out his dirty tunic, relieved that Gabriel had told him he ought to get a change of clothes. He’d been wearing this set for nearly two weeks, after all.

Quietly, so as to not wake his master, Sam slipped into the adjoined wash room. The system of copper tubes that ran through the palace walls and into the city sewers never failed to amaze him—a far cry from the waste pots in the barrack’s privies. He relieved himself quickly and splashed his face and teeth with water.

Enough primping. A glance around the dirty wash room told Sam that it had been months since the place had seen a proper cleaning. He’d go to the quartermaster for floor soap later in the day, but for now, Sam busied himself with a rag and a bucket of stale wash water. Against all odds, he doubted that Gabriel would punish him if the room was not spotless when he awoke.

Gabriel was just stretching to wakefulness when Sam quietly exited the wash room. “’Morning, Sam,” the prince muttered, yawning. “When’d you get up?”

Sam glanced out the window, noting the sun just over the horizon. “An hour ago, I think, ma—Gabriel,” he said, remembering just in time that his new master did not approve of titles.

Gabriel nodded and allowed his head to thump back against the pillows. “The Aesir have the right of it,” he muttered sleepily. “Everyone expects the scholars to lie around and be lazy and get up at noon. But no, everyone here has to live like a warrior.” He rolled over and buried his face in his pillow. “I don’t want to go to breakfast. Do you mind running down to the kitchen and getting something hot for the both of us?”

A shiver ran down Sam’s spine at the thought of facing Zachariah, but he nodded. “I’ll go immediately,” he said.

Gabriel grunted, and Sam slipped out of the room, trotting down the quiet, polished halls. The kitchens were loud and busy, bustling as the staff and slaves scrambled to prepare the morning meal.

Sam searched around for a friendly face, and his eyes landed on Lucifer, quietly stirring a large pot of porridge. He slipped over to the man and tapped him on the shoulder. Lucifer glanced over at him, and offered a tired smile. “Hey, kiddo. Glad to see you’re okay.”

Sam nodded and returned the smile with a tiny one of his own. “Gabriel sent me to bring breakfast for us both,” he said softly. “Can you—”

Lucifer nodded and picked up a tray, scooping a healthy mound of porridge onto the smooth wooden surface. “Amelia’s curing boar, if you want to pick up some meat,” he advised.

“Thank you.” Sam picked up the tray and stepped around a burly slave carrying a steaming pot, his eyes roving about the kitchen. He spotted Amelia and trotted over to her. “Mistress,” he said quietly, drawing her attention. “Prince Gabriel requested that I bring him breakfast.”

The young woman looked over, her eyes crinkling fondly. “Of course,” she said, slicing several large hunks of meat off the wild animal before her. She placed them onto Sam’s tray and smiled at him. Sam inclined his head respectfully and steadied his grip on the tray as he made for the door.

He passed Zachariah on his way out of the kitchens. The man glared, his eyes roving over Sam’s body as he passed. Sam shivered and straightened his spine, walking past his former overseer without so much as acknowledging him. The tiny rebellion felt good, and he smiled to himself, pleased.

Gabriel, it seemed, was not a morning person. Sam ate in silence with his master, content to serve the food and eat neatly from his own plate. Gabriel pushed back from the table with a loud sigh when he had finished, signaling the end of the meal. “I’m off to the library,” he said, glancing at Sam. “Please clean my rooms, and pick up some clothes from the quartermaster. I’d like you to bathe, and I’d like a bath ready for myself by noon. If things are in order, I can take you to the library this evening and start teaching you to read.”

Sam clasped his hands in front of him and bowed. “Thank you, Gabriel,” he said softly.

“Don’t mention it, kiddo. I’d take you now, but, you know, appearances.” Gabriel sighed and shook his head. “I don’t need to be able to eat off the floor. Just get the clutter organized, and maybe get rid of some of the dust, okay?”

Sam nodded, and turned his attention to the deplorable state of his master’s rooms. The door clicked shut as Gabriel left, and he smiled to himself. These tasks, he could easily complete. He wondered if Gabriel knew just how much he had done for him by taking him in.

0o0o0o0o0

Sam had only just finished organizing the clutter in the greeting room, and had not even had time to dust more than a single bookshelf, when the door to Gabriel’s rooms swung open and a pair of well-dressed servants marched in, their eyes fixed upon him. Sam stiffened, carefully placing his rag on the nearest shelf and turning around, his eyes trained on the floor. “Masters,” he said softly, warily. “Has Master Gabriel given you permission to come to his rooms?”

“Well spoken, for a slave,” one of the servants muttered to his fellow. Sam flinched as one of the men crossed the floor and gripped his chin roughly, tilting his head up and staring into his eyes. “His Highness, Crown Prince Michael, requests your presence.”

Sam inhaled sharply, a chill racing down his spine as his muscles fell slack. The Crown Prince wanted to see him—a lowly slave? In the back of his mind, Gabriel’s words rang in warning. “ _Steer clear of him. If Michael sends for me, you go straight to my rooms and lock yourself in your quarters. I don’t care what you were doing before, I don’t care if you were in the middle of a task. If Michael calls, you hide, got it?”_

But Gabriel’s words did not apply to a direct summons for Sam himself, surely. Sam swallowed hard. “Masters, I’m only a slave,” he said quietly, his heart hammering. “Surely he doesn’t want—”

“It is not our place to question the Crown Prince. It is even less yours,” the servant not holding Sam snapped. “You will come with us. The Crown Prince will see to it that you are not punished for falling behind on your duties.”

Sam gulped, but he nodded. What else could he do? He had no power to refuse these men, much less the Crown Prince himself.

Shaking, Sam allowed the men to lead him from Gabriel’s rooms and down a long, winding hall. The servants stopped before a pair of beautifully carved doors, pulling Sam abruptly to a halt. One reached forward to knock on the doors, and the other released his grip on Sam’s arm.

Not a moment later, the door swung open, revealing a tall, imposing man dressed in the most richly embroidered clothes Sam had ever seen. “This is the boy?” the man asked, glancing sharply at Sam.

“Yes, Your Highness,” one of the servants said, shifting nervously.

The man—the Crown Prince, he had to be—nodded imperiously. “Good. You may leave,” he said, nodding at the servants, before fixing Sam with a cold, hard smile. “Come in, boy.”

Sam swallowed back nausea and stepped over the threshold, unable to stop himself from flinching with the Crown Prince closed the door and turned the key. “Sit,” the Prince said, gesturing towards a plush, sumptuous chair. “May I offer you anything? Wine, perhaps, or bread?”

Sam blinked. “M-master?” he asked, his voice coming out small.

“Polite,” the Prince mused. “Good. Now sit, boy.”

Sam scrambled to obey, nearly tripping over his feet as he collapsed into a padded chair. The Prince chuckled, and waved forth a young girl slave, who brought out a platter of wine and two goblets. A glance at the girl’s sunken cheeks and lips told Sam that her teeth had been pulled, doubtless to make it easier to cut out her tongue. He’d seen it done before, a few times. He shivered, watching the Crown Prince warily as the man pulled two packets from his pocket and poured one into each goblet. “Spices add a mulled flavor to the wine,” he said, catching Sam’s eyes. Sam nodded weakly.

“So, you’re my hapless brother’s new body slave,” the Prince said, pushing one of the goblets of wine towards Sam. “An interesting choice. I always expected that if ever my brother gave up his abolitionist tendencies, he’d take on a buxom woman his own age.”

A shudder ran down Sam’s spine. He wrapped his fingers around the goblet of wine, but did not drink, casting his gaze to the floor.

“You may speak freely,” the Crown Prince said, the hard set to his voice implying that it was not so much permission as an order. “There’s none who will hear you but Ava, here.”

Sam cast a look at the young girl, who stared back at him, her eyes wide. “I—” he began, swallowing hard. “I don’t know what business Your Highness has with someone like me.”

The Prince laughed. “Quite the diplomatic response,” he said, taking a long drink of wine. “What’s your name, boy?”

This couldn’t possibly mean anything good, but Sam hardly dared to refuse the man. “My name is Sam, Your Highness,” he said quietly.

The Prince hummed thoughtfully. “So it is. 28-06-15-5. Born Samuel Winchester, a peasant in the Kansas province. Sold to the court nine years ago.”

He’d been through his file—there was no other explanation. Sam shivered, his fingers tightening around his goblet. “Yes, Your Highness,” he said softly.

The Prince regarded him coolly, setting his goblet down upon the table. “Why did my brother select you as his slave, Sam?” he asked softly.

Sam gulped, his eyes flying to the Crown Prince’s face for a split second. Remembering himself, he turned his gaze to the floor. “The kitchen overseer was interested in bedding me,” he said quietly. “I—I was scared,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. “I wouldn’t have refused him,” he added hastily, before he could arouse the Crown Prince’s ire. “I was simply frightened, and my master felt pity for me. He took me from the kitchens to spare me.” Sam shuddered, wrapping his free arm around his waist. He had no idea how the Prince would react—if he would sympathize, or if perhaps he would sentence him to death for his reluctance to perform his duties. Everyone knew what happened to the slaves ordered to death at the Crown Prince’s hand.

“I see,” the Prince said quietly. “How noble of him.”

Sam stared at the floor, shivering. “I don’t wish for you to fear me,” the Prince continued, picking up his goblet with a gentle clink. “Take a drink, and calm yourself.”

Sam couldn’t refuse the man—it was an order, after all. Shakily, he raised the goblet to his lips and took a swallow of wine. The acrid drink burned in his throat, and he suppressed a cough. “Thank you, Your Highness,” he said softly, unwilling to appear ungrateful.

The Prince laughed lightly. “So, Gabriel picked you to protect you,” he said easily. “How typical of my brother. I suppose I could have anticipated this happening, eventually.” He set his goblet down again and leaned forward, reaching out to grip Sam’s chin. Sam gulped as his face was drawn up, as the Crown Prince stared into his eyes. “When you first met with my brother, someone else was with you. A kitchen slave, named Lucifer. What do you know of him?”

Sam swallowed hard, his pulse pounding in his ears. “He—he was new,” he said, stuttering slightly. “From, from the stables, I think? I don’t know him well.”

The Prince regarded him seriously, unblinking. “Then I suppose you did not know that he was once a Royal,” he said calmly. “My father’s second son. He made an attempt on my life, years ago. And he never told you this? Never pulled you aside to complain, or perhaps conspire?”

Conspire—what? Sam shook his head as best he could while still held in the Prince’s grip. “N-never, Your Highness,” he said shakily. “I only spoke with him a few times. He never said anything of the like.”

The Prince nodded, and released Sam’s chin. “Have some more wine, boy,” he ordered. Sam scrambled to obey, taking another sip and fighting back a grimace as the tart liquid rolled over his tongue. “More,” the Prince ordered calmly. “Finish the glass.”

Sam’s hands shook as he raised the goblet to his lips, forcing himself to swallow the unfamiliar drink until the goblet was drained. His head swam slightly as he set down the empty goblet, and he stared at the Prince, his heart hammering in his chest. “Ma—Your Highness?” he asked softly, fear coursing through his veins. He’d never felt like this before, and he wasn’t sure he liked it.

“What I put in your wine is harmless, nothing to worry about,” the Prince said, rising. He gripped Sam’s forearm and pulled him to his feet, drawing him close and staring down coldly at him. “My brothers have never been trustworthy,” he said, his voice a low mutter, barely audible. “Lucifer, of course, betrayed me, but Gabriel too is slippery. Too long, he has gone unwatched. Too long, he has had time to plot and conspire against me.”

Sam stiffened at the insult to his master, staring at the man. “You will report to me everything that Gabriel does,” the Prince continued. “I do mean everything. Verbally, at first, though I will have my men provide you with quill and paper, and teach you to write a code, so you can simply leave the reports at my discretion. And if ever Gabriel meets with Lucifer, you will come to me immediately. Do you understand?”

The words sounded thick and foggy in Sam’s ears, but yes, he understood. He nodded, desperately hoping that the man would release him. “Good,” the Prince said, tightening his grip. “If you please me, I may see fit to grant you your freedom. However,” he said, his fingers clenching, bruising Sam’s arm. “If you lie to me, or if you betray me? I will have you turned into leather, and your corpse will hang from the walls as a warning to all others who would stand against me.”

Sam bit back a whimper, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. “I understand,” Sam whispered, his voice coming out thick and slurred.

“Good.” The Prince released Sam’s arm and took a step back. “The effects of the wine will wear off shortly. Return to your duties, and do not speak a word of this to Gabriel.”

Sam bowed jerkily and stumbled out of the room, leaning against the wall for support. He made it halfway back to Gabriel’s rooms before remembering that he had been ordered to take a bath and ready one for his master. Slowly, Sam made his way to the public bathhouse and loaded several buckets of hot water onto a cart. Getting them up the stairs would be a chore, but more efficient than carrying them one by one.

His mind cleared slowly as he scrubbed a week’s worth of grime from his skin, and with that clarity came gut-wrenching fear. How could he betray Gabriel, who had been so good to him? He shook, holding his breath and ducking his head under the water, ordering himself to calm down. It would be okay, he told himself firmly. Gabriel wasn’t a traitor. Nothing he said to the Crown Prince could be used against his master, surely.

The water was still hot and mostly clean when he exited the large stone tub. Sam rooted around in the hollow by the brazier under the tub until he found flint and lit the brazier to keep the water warm. It wasn’t exactly proper, for a master to bathe after his slave, but Sam supposed he could understand why Gabriel had wanted him to wash as soon as possible.

Sam pulled his dirty shirt and trousers back on and pushed open the wash room door, intent upon stopping by the quartermaster to pick up a change of clothing. He drew up short, his breath catching, as he nearly collided with Gabriel. “S-sorry,” he stuttered, dropping his head instinctively.

“Sam?” He glanced up, meeting his master’s worried eyes. A frown tugged at Gabriel’s lips. “You okay there, kiddo? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” His brow furrowed further. “You _didn’t_ see a ghost, did you?”

Sam shook his head. Seeing a ghost would have been preferable.

“Oh, good. Sorry. Asphodel has some nasty legends about ghosts, and I’m a bit jumpy from reading them all day.” Gabriel chuckled, though his expression remained concerned. “Seriously, though, what’s wrong?”

Sam gulped. “Nothing,” he said quietly.

Gabriel snorted. “You’re a bad liar,” he said, flopping down in one of his chairs. “Come on, spill. What’s the bad news?”

Sam wavered, torn between Michael’s orders and the command of his master. “I can’t say,” he said finally, squeezing his eyes shut. Gabriel might be inordinately kind and patient, but even he surely had his limits for recalcitrance.

Gabriel exhaled sharply. “Well, there’s only three people in this whole God-forsaken Kingdom who have higher ranking than me, so unless one of them ordered you to keep silent, tell me.”

Pursing his lips, Sam stared at the ground. “Shit,” Gabriel muttered. “Shoulda guessed this would happen. Michael wouldn’t lose a chance to put a spy directly in my quarters.”

Sam jerked back, his eyes flying to his master’s face, but Gabriel didn’t look angry. “Hey, I’m not blaming you, Sam,” the man said, offering him a sad smile. “And I get that you can’t tell me if I’m right, but I know I am. Michael’s a paranoid bastard. He’s got eyes everywhere. Don’t tell me, he made all sorts of nasty threats so you’d do what he said, didn’t he?”

Sam gulped. “Thought so,” Gabriel muttered. “Listen, don’t worry about it. Michael’s paranoia aside, I’m as harmless as a fluffy bunny. I don’t do politics, and I don’t have any interest in taking down my brother.” He scowled slightly. “The one secret I had was meeting with Lucifer, and I’ve already been ratted out for that. You tell Michael whatever he wants to know, okay? I’ve got no secrets.”

Slumping slightly with relief, Sam glanced back at the wash room. “Your bath is ready,” he said quietly. There was no way to directly answer his master, so he might as well change the subject. “Unless you want fresh water? I didn’t dirty it much.”

Gabriel shook his head. “Nah, it’s good. I bathe pretty frequently anyways, a little cloudy water isn’t going to kill me. Go get a change of clothes, and we’ll head on down to the banquet hall, okay? They should still have food on most of the tables.” He paused, then frowned. “Actually, eat something on your way to the quartermaster. I don’t think the rest of the nobility would approve if you sat and ate with me.”

Sam nodded and made his way to the cabinet where Gabriel kept his food. Having eaten breakfast, he wasn’t yet hungry, but he pocketed a small cloth package of jerky nonetheless. Gabriel disappeared into the wash room, and Sam slipped out into the hall.

The quartermaster hardly spared Sam a glance, dumping several tunics and a new set of trousers into his arms without a word. Quietly, Sam made a request for cleaning soap, which earned him a scowl before the freeman complied. Sam bundled the new clothing under his arm and tucked the soap into his pocket, walking silently back to Gabriel’s rooms.

Gabriel had emerged from the wash room by the time he returned, his wet hair leaving damp spots on his silk robe. “I’m starving,” the man said by way of greeting, grinning at Sam. “Go change. The sooner I eat, the sooner we can go to the library.”

Sam nodded, his heart soaring at the reminder. He ducked into his tiny quarters and closed the door, changing his clothes quickly and placing the soap on his bed. Clean and fresh for the first time in weeks, Sam opened the door and followed his master down to the banquet hall.

0o0o0o0o0

Learning to read was hard work, Sam discovered, as he bent over a large sheet of parchment. Gabriel had written out letters for him to study, strange, unintelligible marks of ink on the yellowed surface. Sam gnawed absently at his tongue as he concentrated, trying to remember the name of each letter. _A. The ‘ah’ sound. The ‘ey’ sound. Except when other letters make the ‘ey’ sound,_ he thought, his head spinning. It was a lot to take in.

At the top of the parchment, Gabriel had written both their names. It was easier to look at the whole words, to repeat them in his head and puzzle out each symbol. _S, A, M. Sam. S for ‘ss’, a for ‘aa', m for ‘mm’._ Sam stared at his name, memorizing the curve of the letters, the sharp angles and fluid lines.

Difficult as the work was, Sam was confident that he had managed to memorize each letter and its sound by the time Gabriel finally closed his books. It was disheartening to know that he had an entire other set to learn after—he wasn’t sure exactly the difference between capital letters and the other set, but his master seemed to think it was important. Still, it was a start. Sam folded the parchment carefully, reverently, and offered his master a small smile. “Thank you, Gabriel,” he said quietly.

Gabriel chuckled. “Don’t thank me yet, kiddo,” he said cheerfully. “You’ve got a long way to go.”

“But it’s a start,” Sam said before he could stop himself. He waited for the flare of panic that would result from speaking so freely, but to his surprise, it never came. Emboldened, he continued. “I would never get the chance to learn this, not if I’d stayed in the kitchens. And being able to read just seems _wonderful.”_

Gabriel blinked, and then laughed. “You’re telling me,” he said, grinning. “I’m a scholar. Give me my dusty books and boring libraries any day!”

“It’s not boring,” Sam argued.

“Glad you think so,” Gabriel said. “The Holy God knows, if you weren’t interested, you’d be in for a dull time, working for me.”

A dull time sounded quite good in comparison to Sam’s lifelong expectations for his existence—but he had to admit, working for Gabriel made him believe his life could involve something other than fear or boredom. Before his master could protest, Sam rose and swept the stack of books off the table, returning them carefully to their places on the library’s shelves.

“Well, we’d better make an appearance at supper,” Gabriel said, stifling a yawn. “Here’s to hoping my brother ignores me all night. Seems like the best course of events, don’t you think?”

Remembering the Crown Prince’s cold eyes and terrifying demeanor, Sam had to agree. “I’ll wait on you at the table, right?” he asked carefully.

“Yeah, suppose so. Though with serving slaves, you probably won’t have to do much more than stand there and make sure no one puts poison in my wine,” Gabriel said, winking. Sam shivered, remembering the packet of powder Michael had poured into his own drink. “Relax,” Gabriel said, raising an eyebrow. “No one’s going to poison me. I’m not important enough.”

He hoped so. Still, Sam resolved to keep a sharp eye on Gabriel’s food and drink, especially after the morning’s events. It was clear that the Crown Prince did not trust his brother, and if he was willing to lower himself to dealing with a slave just to get a spy in Gabriel’s rooms, who knew how far he would go?

Gabriel had been good to him. As he followed his master to the banquet hall, Sam came to a decision. He would defend Gabriel in any way possible, even if it cost him his life.


	8. Bloodshed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hellions attack the palace. Heaven's win is overshadowed by an unexpected tragedy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: violence, minor character death, mutilation, threats of mutilation.
> 
> Again, any tips on writing fight/battle scenes would be greatly appreciated. I'm not entirely content with this chapter, but I'm not sure what needs to be fixed, exactly.

Three months, now, Dean had served on his walls, and each day, Castiel found himself sliding further and further from his initial assumptions about the man. Dean was amicable and respectful, even when faced with distrust and apprehension from their fellow members of the Guard. Disrespect had not been an issue in recent weeks—not since the last incursion of Hellions, when Dean’s skills had been put to the test and he had proven himself to be invaluable. He could depend on the man, Castiel realized, even trust him with his life.

Of course, this newfound realization did not make his reaction to Dean’s presence any less frustrating. Castiel wasn’t sure what it was about the man that made his body react in ways it never had before. Not once in his life had he looked at another human being as more than a friend, and even objective beauty had never roused any interest in him. The way his heart swooped when Dean smiled, the uncomfortable tightness in his lower belly when Dean laid a hand on his arm or clapped him on the back—it was all so confusing. Some small part of Castiel wanted to resent the man for arousing these feelings in him, but then Dean would laugh, or make some ridiculous joke, and Castiel would find himself unable to be angry.

At least as far as distractions went, he could do so much worse than Dean Winchester.

0o0o0o0o0

The warning bells tolled more than an hour before Castiel would ordinarily rise, jerking him abruptly from his slumber. Hellions. Holy God damn it all. He half-fell out of bed, blindly feeling his way towards his wardrobe in the dark. He did not bother to dress, instead throwing a mail shirt over his night shirt and sleep pants. His weapons lay out on his desk, still gleaming from their cleaning, and he seized his bow as he stuffed his feet into a pair of boots.

Good enough. Castiel barely remembered to grab his helm before sprinting out the door, adjusting his weapons as he ran for the walls. Clusters of nervous nobles and servants and slaves milled about the halls, most dressed for sleep, all whispering amongst themselves. Castiel ignored them and bolted for the walkway that would take him to the palace wall.

“Report,” Castiel panted as he skidded to a halt at the southern edge of the wall, illuminated by a sickly orange glow in the distance. “How many?”

Commander Hannah glanced at him gravely. “Too many,” she said, her face white. “More than a few squads. It’s more like a whole company, this time. Uriel spotted them through the looking glass, not far. They’ve already broken through the city.”

Castiel cursed and waved Lieutenant Uriel over. “Spyglass,” he demanded, holding out his hand.

Uriel passed the tool over, his face ashen. “More than we’ve ever seen,” he muttered. “God damn them all!”

Castiel held up the glass and stared wildly around. The southern side of the city was burning, bright flames spiraling over buildings. Long, wide lines of Hellion soldiers marched in unison, slashing down stray the citizens and horses that got in their way, followed by a veritable wall of mounted soldiers. Castiel grimaced and lowered the glass. “I’d say we have less than fifteen minutes before they reach the walls,” he said, handing the glass back to Uriel. “What in God’s name is the army doing, letting them get all the way to the city?”

“If there’s that many, the army squads probably didn’t stand a chance.” Castiel glanced behind him for the source of the speaker. Dean stood just behind him, also attired in sleep clothes, rubbing at his eyes. “Hellions usually send, what, three squads to any given place at a time? Army patrols are balanced for that number.”

Castiel growled. “So, they’re getting serious,” he muttered, pulling an arrow from his quiver.

“Or desperate,” Hannah said. “I suppose they’ve realized they can’t defeat us with so few men.”

“If they’re this close, we don’t have time to get the Royal family out of the palace,” Commander Hael said, her face drawn tight. “Captain. What should we do?”

With this many Hellions, they might lose. Castiel gripped his bow tightly, thinking hard. “The Hellions will attack from the south,” he said. “Leave only as many men as necessary on the other sides of the walls. I want five guards sent to each member of the Royal family, and I want as many soldiers as we can spare pulled to the southern side. Send news to as many nobles and servants as possible. They should arm themselves with whatever weapons are handy.”

Hael nodded. “Rachel!” she barked to one of the Guard’s newest recruits. “Pass these orders along. Use your discretion in handing out assignments. I have faith in you.”

The orange glow of the burning Capital brightened, and Castiel knew that the Hellions were drawing closer. “Bows,” he ordered tightly. “Shoot them as soon as they come into range. Don’t worry about capturing any alive, not with this many. Shoot to kill, and take them all down.”

Castiel took a moment to quiet his heart and calm his nerves. So, the Hellions were attacking in greater numbers than they ordinarily did. That was fine. They were still only human, killed easily enough. They had a height advantage, and advanced warning. “Hannah,” he said quietly. “Have the catapults been repaired since the last attack?”

“All but one, sir,” the woman answered.

“Good. Do not worry about ammunition. Use as many stones as needed to crush the barbarians,” he said. He had not seen any transport catapults through Uriel’s spyglass. Odds were, the Hellions would be unable to use their stones against them in return.

The dull thud of hundreds of marching feet grew louder and louder as the Hellions approached. Castiel squinted, the glow of the burning city making it easier to see their targets in the darkness. “Aim,” he called, his voice reverberating across the walls. “As soon as they get close enough, fire!”

From there, it was muscle memory. As they neared the wall, the front line of Hellions broke into a sprint, their lines falling to pieces as they screamed their barbaric, chilling war cry. Castiel took careful aim, determined to shoot down the soldiers who carried the ladders that could potentially carry the Hellions over the walls. Arrows whizzed past his head, barbed, cruel iron. Someone behind him screamed—Ezekiel, he thought. There was no time to look, to see if his comrade had been killed, or if he was merely injured.

The stones beneath his feet rumbled as one of the Hellion ladders slammed against the palace walls. Cursing, Castiel fired an arrow at one of the many Hellions scaling the ladder, shooting the woman off the iron rungs. “They’ve breached the wall!” someone cried, a warning to their fellows. Castiel narrowed his eyes and reached for another arrow, wincing. His quiver was running dangerously low. _Holy God, protect us,_ he prayed, shooting a Hellion directly in the throat.

There were too many. Castiel fired shot after shot, and still the Hellions kept coming. Another wall-shaking thud told him that the Hellions had managed to get another ladder against the wall. Castiel fired his last arrow, knocking a man from the ladder, and threw his bow to the ground, drawing his sword.

A Hellion leapt at him, an ear-piercing shriek ripping through the air. Castiel slashed, slicing through the man’s belly and spilling his guts to the floor. Taking a broad stance, he released a yell of his own, his throat cracking from the strain.

Slash and stab and thrust. Castiel whirled through the press of Hellions, cutting throats and spilling intestines and breaking limbs with the flat of his blade. A knife grazed his cheek, and he spun about, running his assailant through. Panting, he stared around for his next target, his heart pounding in his chest. Dozens, if not hundreds of bodies littered the ground, but most of his men were still standing, and the proportion of Hellions to his own soldiers had drastically decreased. _We’re winning,_ he thought, his heart soaring.

It was a moment of distraction he would shortly come to regret, when a hard blow struck him in the back of the head. Castiel staggered forward with a cry, spinning around and pressing his back against the wall as he slashed blindly at his attacker. His blade glanced off metal armor, and then the weapon was ripped from his hands. “Nice dancing, baby-blues,” a Hellion woman said, baring her teeth, bright white against her round, soot-smeared face.

Castiel yanked his dagger from its sheath, only for the woman to grab his arm and slam it against the wall, the metal tips of her leather gloves pressing painfully against his chainmail. “Acting Captain Castiel,” she purred, seizing him by the hair and slamming his head against the stones. Castiel’s vision swam, and he grabbed at her arm, struggling to wrestle her away. “Ah-ah, no,” the woman chided, cracking his head against the wall again. The world went dark for a split second as white-hot pain shot through Castiel’s skull. He gasped, his hands falling slack. “You’d make a nice hostage, wouldn’t you? And those pretty blue eyes would look so nice in my collection.” Her grin widened, eyes sparkling in her round face as she released his hair and reached for a length of chain wrapped around her waist.

_“Cas!”_ Castiel’s arm was released abruptly as a body slammed against his assailant’s, knocking her to the side. Castiel closed his eyes, the scuffle too loud in his ears, and took a deep breath to ground himself. _Get up,_ he ordered mentally, flexing his fingers around the hilt of his dagger. He could still fight. Retrieve his sword, get back to defending the walls.

“Wow, green eyes, you’re almost as pretty as baby-blues!” Castiel forced himself to open his eyes and struggled to his feet. His vision fuzzy, he could just make out Dean, face twisted in fury as he grappled with Castiel’s attacker. “Maybe I’ll add your eyes to my collection too.”

_“Bitch!”_ Dean screamed, wrapping a hand around the woman’s throat. Castiel blinked, but then Dean was on the ground, pinned by the Hellion. The woman grinned, reaching for Dean’s face with a single gloved hand, iron claws glinting in the burning light.

Castiel was not sure where he got the sudden burst of energy from. With a roar, he leapt at the woman, throwing her off Dean. He staggered to his feet and began to waver over to her, only to be stopped by a strong arm around his chest. “She’ll kill you!” Dean yelled in his ear. “You need to get out of here. You can barely stand!”

“I’m fine, Dean!” Castiel shouted, his voice small and indistinct in his own ears. The world blinked black for a split second around him; dimly, he was aware of Dean dragging him off and laying him down against the back partition of the wall.

“Play dead. You’re no good injured,” Dean ordered. Castiel wanted to protest, but the man turned and left before he could find the words.

This was ridiculous. He could still fight. But black unconsciousness hovered at the edges of his mind, so tantalizing. Dean was right, Castiel realized. He would be a liability like this. He just had the presence of mind to wrench up his mail shirt and draw a shallow gash over his chest with his dagger, convincing enough as a mortal wound at a glance, before giving into the darkness.

0o0o0o0o0

Sharp, needling pain pricked at Castiel’s chest, an unpleasant, uncomfortable burn. His head throbbed angrily, sending sparks of pain shooting down his spine. Groaning, he tried to roll over, only to find that he couldn’t. Castiel forced himself to open his eyes, blinking as bright light flooded his vision.

Leather straps secured his chest to a pallet in the palace infirmary. The healer in the process of stitching the gash on his chest glanced at him, before returning her attention to his wound. “You’ve awoken. You weren’t out nearly as long as anticipated,” she said, tying off the thread and cutting it off the needle.

“How long?” Castiel croaked as the woman untied the straps that kept him restrained.

“Not long. A few hours,” the woman said, offering him a tired smile. “Sit up, my Lord. I need to bandage your wound and check your head.”

Castiel winced, struggling to raise his torso. “My soldiers—”

“Can give you their reports later,” the healer said firmly. “Right now, you need to rest.”

Castiel waited just long enough for the healer to wrap his chest in linen before struggling to his feet. “I need to see my soldiers _now,”_ he said, gritting his teeth.

The healer sighed. “One of your men’s been outside the infirmary since he brought you in,” she said, exasperated. “Please, my Lord, _sit._ I’ll bring him in.”

Grumbling, Castiel lowered himself back onto the pallet. He gripped the edges of the mat tightly and stared after the healer, narrowing his eyes. The woman opened the door and poked her head into the hall. “He’s awake, my Lord,” the healer said, her voice barely audible in Castiel’s ears.

_“Finally.”_ Castiel’s heart stuttered as Dean pushed past the healer and half-ran to him, skittering to a halt and dropping to the ground beside the pallet. “Cas—I mean, Captain, are you okay?”

Cas. Dean had yelled that, during the battle. A smile tugged at Castiel’s lips as he turned the shortened form of his name around in his mind. He liked it, he decided. “I am all right, Dean,” he said, glancing down at the bandage around his chest. “My wounds will heal. I need a report on the outcome of the battle.”

Dean straightened his spine as he crossed his legs and clasped his hands in front of him. “The Hellions retreated shortly after you were injured,” he said quietly. “We killed nearly three hundred of them, and took six into custody. They’re with the torturers now. Commander Hannah estimates that at least two hundred escaped, ‘cause the tracks outside the wall suggest a force of about 500.”

Castiel nodded. “We’ve never had more than fifty or so reach our walls. They’re being more careful, it seems.” He sighed, his muscles aching with the strain of keeping himself upright. Surely Dean wouldn’t think any less of him if he decided to lie down? No sooner had the thought crossed his head than his arms gave out, and he fell back hard against the pallet.

“You okay, Cas?” Dean asked, raising a hand as though to reach for him, and then drawing back. “Sorry, I mean, Captain. I…” A flush rose in his cheeks, dark against his golden skin. “Sorry.”

Castiel chuckled, wheezing slightly. “Cas is fine,” he said, smiling. “You saved my life today, Dean.” The memory of the Hellion woman was too sharp in his mind.

Dean shifted slightly. “Yeah, well, you saved mine after,” he muttered, glancing at the floor. “Anyways. We didn’t lose as many as we could have, but… We lost too many people,” he said quietly. “Azrael. Sophia. Ezekiel…”

Castiel bit his lip as Dean rattled off the list of the dead. Hellion attacks rarely came without casualties, but that did not make the loss of his friends and comrades any easier to stomach. Worst, Castiel thought, was when Dean listed Uriel and Hael among the dead. Before Dean had come along, Castiel had always considered Uriel to be the funniest member of the Guard, and Hael had been like a sister to him.

But Hannah and Inias and Dean and so many others were alive, and the Hellions had failed to make it past the walls. Overall, the battle had gone very much in their favor.

Dean sat quietly with Castiel after he had named all the dead, his head bowed. Grieving, Castiel realized. Even though some of the dead had never come to accept Dean, losing a fellow member of the Guard was always horrific. Castiel reached for Dean’s hand and patted it gently, catching his attention. “They did not die in vain, Dean,” he said, repeating the mantra that kept him going after these battles. “They sacrificed for the Kingdom, as they had sworn to. And their sacrifice kept the Hellions from the palace.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, but for how long?” he asked bitterly. “They’ll keep sending more guys. They lead the army on wild goose chases and hit us with sneak attacks. How are we supposed to keep them out forever?”

Castiel supposed that without formal political education, it made sense for Dean to worry. “It’s surprising that Hell has had the resources to keep the war going on this long,” he said reassuringly. “Hell is a barren wasteland. Volcanoes and deserts and open pools of sulfur, no forests or farmland, and precious few rivers and lakes. They rely on raids and small wars to keep their economy going, and this is no small war. They’ve overreached themselves.” Without thinking, he squeezed Dean’s hand. “Heaven, on the other hand, is full of farms and forests, and we have access to the seas. We have far fewer enemies than Hell, so the chance of fighting concurrent wars is slim. We have only to endure until the Hellions wear themselves out, and then they will beg for peace.”

A knock on the infirmary door interrupted Dean before he could speak. Frowning, the healer opened the door, and Inias trotted in, clutching his side with bandaged hands. “Captain,” he panted, bowing. “Theo has gotten information from one of the captured Hellions.”

Castiel frowned, carefully sitting up. “That’s a matter for the King and the Crown Prince, not for me,” he began.

“It’s important,” Inias said, cutting him off. “Theo wants you in the dungeons to speak with the Hellion immediately.” He swallowed hard. “The Hellions had a secondary goal, apart from getting into the palace.” He paused, meeting Castiel’s eyes seriously. “They wanted you.”

0o0o0o0o0

Despite the healer’s protests, Castiel allowed Dean and Inias to help him walk to the dungeons. The cool, clammy air pressed against his skin, making him shiver, and the smell of blood and waste was nearly overwhelming. Dean and Inias passed Castiel into the care of one of the torture-masters, Theo, and retreated to wait upstairs.

Castiel followed Theo to one of the isolation cells, leaning on the man’s arm for support. The Hellion inside sneered at Castiel as he entered, spitting at his feet. “Acting Captain, my _Lord,”_ he hissed, glaring at Castiel with his one remaining eye. Dark, nearly black blood pooled in the empty socket of his other eye, a testament to Theo’s methods of persuasion. “What’s a’matter? Scared of little old us?”

“Hardly,” Castiel said, settling down in the chair Theo had left for him. “So. Hell wants me—why?”

The Hellion snorted. “Stupid Heavenly,” he jeered. “Your little pin-prick giver knows that. Ask him.”

“I’m asking you,” Castiel said, allowing his voice to slip into a growl. “Why does Hell want me?”

“I’ll encourage him if you like, my Lord,” Theo said, picking up a large iron rod and smacking it menacingly against his palm.

Castiel shook his head. “That is unnecessary,” he said quietly. “I’m sure he’ll talk.”

The Hellion spat again. “Ain’t exactly a state secret,” he jibed. “Youngest ever Acting Captain, apparently some sort of military genius. And we ain’t ever gotten past the walls with you in charge. You think the King don’t want you out of the way?”

“Interesting,” Castiel mused, leaning forward. “I suppose I should be flattered, to be seen as such a threat.”

“You’re an inconvenience, is what you are,” the prisoner snarled. “A fuckin’ blight, always getting in the way. You might’ve got me, and you might’ve won this time, but we’re coming for you, and we’ll get you.” He glared at Castiel with his one eye. “Meg’s got your scent, now. She ain’t letting you go. And if you think your little boy here’s done shit to hurt me, oh, you’ll be in for a _world_ of surprise and pain when Alastair gets his hands on you!”

Castiel hummed at the mention of Hell’s most infamous torturer, known throughout all the surrounding kingdoms. “All you’re doing is making me feel important, here,” he said, rising from his chair. “Theo? Did you want anything else from me?”

The torture-master shook his head. “Nah, he’s told me what I needed to know,” he said, advancing on the captured Hellion, grinning. “Meg, huh? Why don’t you tell me about this Meg character.”

Castiel left the dungeon to the sound of the Hellion’s anguished screams. Feeling stronger than he had since waking up in the infirmary, he made his way up the stairs on his own, though he allowed Dean to take him by the shoulders and steady him on his way out the door.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Castiel assured his men, taking in the grim set of their faces. “It’s nothing we couldn’t have guessed, or that will be difficult to prepare for.”

Dean’s arms tightened on his shoulders, and Inias stared at him, gray-faced. Castiel frowned, cold dread shivering down his spine. “Inias, what is it?” he asked, leaning heavily against Dean’s side.

“It’s the King,” Inias said gravely. “Someone must have taken advantage of the confusion in the Hellion attack. He’s been poisoned.” The man swallowed hard. “He’s dead.”

0o0o0o0o0

Less than a day after the news about the King, Castiel received a summons from Michael himself. The murderer had been found, the messenger said. Michael was insistent that all nobles gather in the Justice Hall, to witness the immediate execution of the traitor.

Of all the people Castiel expected to see in chains before the audience, he would have never guessed it would be Lucifer, the infamous traitor. He clenched his fists, snarling. The King should have had him executed at his first offense, he thought furiously. Once a traitor, always a traitor. And now, the King was dead, thanks to his own lenient folly.

Michael stood before the gathered nobles, the picture of cold fury. “Nine years ago, a man I once called brother made an attempt on my life,” he said, his powerful voice rolling through the hall. “My father and I were merciful. By rights, he ought to have been skinned and left to hang from the walls, to serve as an example for all who would commit treason. Instead, my father and I allowed our fondness to blind us. Rather than executing the traitor, we had him enslaved.” He glared out at the gathered nobles. “In allowing the traitor to live, by some oversight, he was given access to my father’s medicinal drink. I have spoken with the kitchen master, who admits that the traitor may have had access to the foodstuffs needed to create arsenic, the poison that killed my father. Given his history, it is all too clear that he murdered our King, in some attempt at petty revenge.”

The chained man shook his head, staring mutely at the floor. Castiel scowled, fury raging through his veins. He had spoken with Lucifer only a few times, but it was all too easy to imagine the rash, arrogant man killing his own father. And why wouldn’t he? He’d already attempted to kill his brother, after all.

“We were lenient once. We will not be again,” Michael thundered. “You, the court, will witness his execution. As his flesh is stripped from his bones, remember what happens to traitors. As his blood pools across the floor, remember what happens to king-killers. As the life leaves his—”

_“Stop!”_

Castiel whipped around, staring at the man who had thrown open the door to the Hall, disheveled and panting. Prince Gabriel. He frowned, staring at the man as the gathered nobles began murmuring around him. What in the name of the Holy God was the Prince _doing?_

“Prince Gabriel,” Michael said, his voice hard. “I told you to stay in your rooms. Your sentimentality—”

“This isn’t sentiment,” Gabriel gasped, clutching at his side. “This is—this is important. Religion.”

Michael took a deep breath and clenched his fists. “What ever do you mean by that, brother?” he asked acidly.

Gabriel panted for a few seconds, his mouth wide-open. “Rites,” he forced out. “The One Holy God commands that all those condemned to death be given twenty-four hours to repent, and that they then be administered rites before the execution. Even traitors. Even slaves.” He swallowed, still breathing hard. “I do not blame you for letting it slip your mind,” he said, staring at Michael. “You’re grieving. So am I.” He took another deep breath. “But as a born servant of the One Holy God, you are bound to uphold his commands. I knew you would not want your grief to drive you to go against the edicts of our Holy God.”

Michael took a deep breath, his expression falling blank. “I thank you for your reminder, Gabriel,” he said tightly. “You are correct. In my grief, in my desire to rid this kingdom of a dangerous traitor, I had forgotten.” Coldly, he turned to the servant-guards in the corner. “Take the traitor back to the dungeons. We will convene for the execution in twenty-four hours.” He turned back to the gathered nobility. “In twenty-four hours, you will amass here for the rites and execution. Go.”

Castiel frowned, staring between Michael and Gabriel. No one ever enforced the edict of repentance, not for generations. Like the commandments against premarital sex and the consumption of certain foods, it was widely ignored, seen as irrational. Not even the most conservative and devout priests would insist upon upholding it—not unless explicitly reminded.

Disturbed, Castiel joined the mass of nobles in exiting the hall, his mind spinning. What, exactly, was Gabriel hoping to accomplish? The Prince was an oddity, to be sure, but no one sympathized with traitors such as Lucifer.

It was probably the product of his scholarly nature, Castiel decided. It would make sense, that he would study religion to the letter. Surely it was impossible that he had any ulterior motives.

Even so, as Castiel returned to his rooms, he could not set his mind at ease. With a sigh, he poured himself a glass of wine and slumped down in his favorite chair. Whatever Gabriel was doing, Michael would take care of it, he decided. He simply needed to have faith in the Crown Pri—no, in the _King._


	9. Fugitives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel will not let his brother die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's to hoping my research in finding terms for various afterlifes and equivalents is accurate!

His heart still hammering, Gabriel collapsed in a chair as soon as he’d entered his rooms. “Wine,” he ordered brusquely, not bothering to glance at Sam. A part of him twinged with guilt as the boy scurried off to procure a wine service, but he forced the feeling from his mind. He was about to ask a lot of Sam. Asking for a drink that he desperately needed was nothing in comparison.

Sam poured himself a goblet and sat across from Gabriel, something the man knew his slave would not have dared to do even a month ago. “Did they kill him?” Sam asked, his voice trembling.

Gabriel shook his head. “No,” he said shortly, glancing at Sam. For a long moment, he hesitated, and took a long drink of wine. “Sam,” he said finally. “Are you loyal to me?”

Sam shot him a wounded look. “How could I not be?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“That’s not what I mean,” Gabriel said. “I know you spy for Michael. Don’t bother,” he added as Sam opened his mouth. “We’ve established this. I know you can’t tell me, and I don’t care. You do it. That’s fine. But I need to know who holds your loyalty—Michael, or me?”

Sam was silent for a long moment. “Michael holds the power,” he said carefully. “But I have no attachment to him. However I can serve you, whatever I need to do to support you, you hold my loyalty.”

It was what he had expected, what he had hoped for. Still, what he was about to ask—but there was no avoiding it, he reminded himself. His brother’s life was on the line. “If I ask you to risk your life for me, will you?” he inquired softly.

Sam busied himself with his goblet of wine for a moment. “Yes,” he said after a pause. “I will.”

“Even if it involves betraying Michael?”

Exhaling, Sam took a sip of wine and met Gabriel’s eyes. “Yes," he said finally. "What are you asking me to do?”

Good. Gabriel smiled grimly. “I’ve bought Lucifer twenty-four hours, but no more,” he said. “Tonight, I will visit him in the dungeons. I have all the supplies needed to knock out the guards—Brahman smoke bombs work wonders when mixed with certain herbs. I plan to smuggle Lucifer out and flee to Hell.” Sam gazed seriously at him, his brow furrowed, and he continued. “When I go to visit Lucifer, you will go to the stables and ready three horses for travel. Take my Sleipnir, and two other horses reputed to be fast. There’s an old gate that leads to some pretty unused paths in the Royal hunting forest, one that was supposedly walled over generations ago.” He shook his head. “I’ve thought I might have to flee for months now. I took down the wall. We’ll go out that gate, and make for Hell.”

Sam nodded seriously. “You’re sure that the Guard doesn’t know about the gate?” he asked.

Gabriel shook his head. “It’s pretty far off the beaten path, and the hunting grounds aren’t patrolled by the Guard. You get the horses out of the stables, and leave it to me to get Lucifer over to the hunting grounds.” He could do it, easily. With all the Hellion attacks, most of the Guard tended to cluster around the southern side of the palace walls. Sneaking out the north-east would be easy enough.

“Okay,” Sam said, taking a sip of wine. “I guess this makes us traitors, huh?”

Gabriel shrugged. “It wouldn’t be necessary if Michael wasn’t a paranoid little bitch,” he said. And it was true. He’d loved his eldest brother once—right until the moment where Michael had first betrayed Lucifer. But he’d seen the measure of Michael’s character since then—power-hungry, murderous, and sadistic.

“We’ll need to bring supplies,” Sam mused, twirling his goblet idly. “Food, and water, and spare clothes if we’ve got room.”

Gabriel nodded. “We’ll empty my food stash before leaving,” he said. “I’ve got a bow somewhere. I used to hunt, and Lucifer was a stellar hunter—well, before.” He smiled bitterly, remembering his childhood rides through the forest with his brother. Lucifer had been with him when he had brought down his first deer, had been the one to patiently instruct him in the art of hunting boar. “As for water, we’ll bring wineskins, and fill them in rivers and lakes. It shouldn’t be a problem. We’ll probably have to skimp on the clothes, though.” Goodbye to his fine collection of robes, though more than them, he would miss his books. Gabriel shook his head. He knew he would not have room to bring more than a map or two.

Sam drained the last of his wine and set the goblet down on the table. “I’ll begin packing,” he said. “Let me know when you want me to go to the stables.”

“I will,” Gabriel said. “I ought to attend dinner—make it look normal. If you can pocket any food from the table, do it. The more supplies we have, the better.”

Sam offered him a small smile. “Understood,” he said. He stood to clear the wine service, and paused at Gabriel’s side. “If we’re caught—”

“You knew nothing of my plans,” Gabriel said, his chest constricting. Michael would likely not show mercy, but maybe, just maybe, he would overlook the actions of some nameless slave. “You followed orders, and I threatened you. Understand?”

Sam shook his head. “That’s not what I was going to say,” he said. “Michael will order me killed if we’re caught, regardless. According to his orders, I need to report this to him.” It was the first time Sam had verbally acknowledged that Michael had placed him as a spy. “I wanted to thank you. I—” he broke off, swallowing hard. “These last few months, I’ve felt more like a person than I have since I was a child,” he said thickly. “So, even if we’re caught, thank you. You didn’t have to care about me, but you did. I will _never_ forget it. And if we get caught, at least I can go to my death knowing I served you the best I could.”

Gabriel stared at Sam, stunned. Yeah, okay, he’d pulled the kid out of Zachariah’s clutches, he’d taught him to read and gone easy on the workload, but he’d never thought he’d done anything more than basic human decency required. Impulsively, he rose from his chair and embraced Sam, pulling the boy tight to his chest. “You’re a good kid,” he said roughly. “You deserve better than this.” Swallowing hard, he stepped back, holding Sam at arm’s length. “And when we get to Hell, you’ll be free. They don’t have a slave system. It’s not going to be easy—”

“But it will be worth it,” Sam said, his eyes glistening. “Thank you, Gabriel. For everything.”

“You’re welcome, kid,” Gabriel said, a lump rising in his throat. “You’re welcome.”

0o0o0o0o0

The empty palace halls were unnerving, unusual. Gabriel and Sam had retired immediately following dinner, a candle laced with Xītiān blast-powder set as a wake-up call to rouse them when most of the palace would be asleep. Sam had set off for the stables, and Gabriel made his way to the dungeons, creeping silently through unlit corridors, a candle clutched in his hands.

Ordinarily, Gabriel would try to talk his way past the dungeon guards, but he had no doubt that Michael had given them orders to not let him past. Silently, he opened the door and stepped carefully down the stairs, watching closely for the guards. There. He pulled his tunic up over his nose and took a deep breath before igniting his Brahman smoke bomb and holding his breath as the fumes overtook the guards, sending them almost instantly to the ground.

He had to hurry. Gabriel paused only to slide the key-ring off one of the guard’s belts. Now that the guards were unconscious, there was no need for subtlety. He raced through the dungeons, sprinting to the end of the stone corridor, the cell that housed disgraced royalty and traitors. Even with Lucifer’s enslaved status, he would be kept there, Gabriel was sure of it.

He fumbled the key into the door and wrenched it open, raising his candle and staring into the gloom. “Lucifer!” he called, catching sight of his brother, asleep on the stone floor.

Lucifer cracked open his eyes, blinking tiredly. “Gabriel?” he asked, sitting up and staring at him. “What are you—”

“Come on,” Gabriel hissed, striding into the cell and hauling his brother to his feet. “Even Brahman smoke bombs won’t keep them out forever.”

Lucifer stared at him, wide-eyed. “You shouldn’t be here,” he snapped. “I’ve made my peace. Michael wants me dead, well, there’s nothing I can do to stop it. It’s _done,_ Gabriel. I’ve accepted my death.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes—typical. “Yeah? Well, I haven’t,” he said, grabbing Lucifer by the arm and dragging him out of his cell. “Come on. We’re getting out. What have you got to lose, anyways?”

“Your stupid life!” Lucifer hissed. “I don’t want you to die for me, Gabriel! All of this, all that Michael has done—I can’t lose you. Even when I’m dead, I need you to live—for me.” He jerked his arm out of Gabriel’s grasp, staring at him. “Please.”

How could his brother be so dense? “Same here,” he said tersely. “Lucifer, I love you. Now, quit being a great big bag of dicks and _follow_ me. Sam’s waiting with horses and cloaks out at the stables. We’re going to Hell, Lucifer. Michael can’t touch us there.”

Lucifer scowled, running and hand through his hair. “You dragged Sam into this?” he demanded furiously.

Gabriel shrugged. “If I’d left him, he’d be under suspicion,” he said practically. He knew his eldest brother, after all. “Michael would undoubtedly have him executed. Now, for the love of the Holy God, let’s _go._ I already knocked out the guards, and they’ll know it was me. You know how hard it is to get your hands on Brahman powders unless you’ve actually been to the country. It’s too late to turn back now.”

“I really, really hate you sometimes,” Lucifer muttered, but he reluctantly followed Gabriel up the steps and out of the dungeon.

Out in the main halls, they had to be quiet again. As softly as he could, Gabriel led Lucifer out one of the side doors, shifting his grip to his brother’s wrist. He took off for the north-east gate at a run, dragging Lucifer behind him, his hand clutching his brother’s arm tightly.

As he had predicted, patrols on the north-east side of the gate were sporadic, manned by a single member of the Guard. Gabriel waited until the man had passed the gate before igniting another cloth ball, this one filled with blast-powder from Xītiān. “Quickly!” he hissed, dragging Lucifer through before one of the Guards would come by and spot the damage. Safely through the ruined gate, with several minutes at least to spare, he pulled Lucifer to the shadows and towards the stables.

Sam stood outside the stables, holding the reins of three horses, his face hidden by a hooded cloak. He passed two cloaks to Lucifer and Gabriel, who donned them quickly. Gabriel took a moment to look at the horses Sam had chosen—a dappled grey gelding that belonged to Michael himself, and a black mare that belonged to some member of the guard. Gabriel glanced at the mare, frowning. Sleipnir was a stallion, after all. “You sure it’s wise to take a mare?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow at Sam.

“I’ve got my reasons for taking this one,” Sam said softly. He passed Sleipnir’s reins to Gabriel and the grey’s to Lucifer, before grabbing the black horse’s saddle and mounting clumsily.

Gabriel shrugged and lifted his foot into the stirrup, hefting himself off the ground and onto Sleipnir’s back. The stallion snorted, stamping impatiently as they waited for Lucifer to climb onto the grey gelding’s back. “Okay, let’s move,” Gabriel said quietly, nudging Sleipnir into a trot and directing the horse towards the Royal hunting grounds.

In the two months since he had begun tearing down the stoned-over wall, the Royal forest had hardly changed. Gabriel rode Sleipnir through the narrow, winding forest stream for as long as possible in an effort to throw any trackers off their trail, before directing the horse out of the stream and towards the secret gate. Lucifer and Sam followed him silently, their horses mercifully quiet as they moved through the woods.

He had to dismount to unlock the gate, but after exiting the palace grounds and conferring with his map, Gabriel was certain that he knew the best plan of action. “We’ll head towards Paradisio first, throw them off our trail,” he said. Even with Paradisio and Heaven joined by Michael’s marriage to Princess Raphael, the two lands functioned as private kingdoms. Heaven’s trackers would no doubt be loath to venture too near to Paradisian lands. “We’ll go south when we reach the great forest, head towards Hell from there. I don’t think they’ll expect that.”

Lucifer nodded grimly, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Let’s ride,” he said tersely. “The farther we get from the palace before they realize we’re gone, the better. I wouldn’t be surprised if they pulled the army out to hunt us down.”

Gabriel snorted, mounting Sleipnir. “There’s a war going on,” he said dismissively. “Michael won’t call the army out just to look for us.” He hoped he was right. Even his paranoid brother would surely prioritize the war over hunting them down. What could they possibly do to move against the Crown, as fugitives on the run?

0o0o0o0o0

After the first several days of hiding by day and riding by night, Gabriel had to admit that for all his education, for all his intellectual knowledge on the arts of escape and stealth, fleeing from a powerful, organized force was more difficult than he had expected. The fear of capture kept him up during the day, leaving him tired at night. Following rivers and streams led them too close to villages, but avoiding them would lead the horses to dehydration, and it was a delicate balance to work with. After only a few days, he found himself cross and snappish, barking orders and whining at any suggestions Sam and Lucifer made. This whole thing was ridiculous. What, he wondered during his more desperate periods, had led him to flee the palace, the soft, sumptuous life to which he was accustomed?

But when he looked at Lucifer, at his living, intact brother, all his regrets and anger flew away. All the hardship and suffering of the road was worth it, because his brother was alive. He could have tolerated Michael’s tyranny. He could have continued his existence in the palace, living as a disrespected scholar, keeping Sam as a slave, if only his brother would live. But with Lucifer’s life on the line, there were no other options. Flight was the best course of action—no, the only course of action. He could endure any hardship, so long as Lucifer lived.

He lost track of time, but he could estimate that it took them nearly a week to reach the great, unkempt forest that divided Heaven and Paradisio. From there, while it was easier to avoid detection, movement became more difficult. While there were few villages to scout out and avoid, the brush was dense, and they were forced to move slowly or injure their horses.

If Gabriel could be grateful for anything in addition to his brother’s life, it was Sam’s presence. Sam was the one who kept watch over the horses while he and Lucifer went hunting to add to their quickly dwindling stores of food. It was Sam who cared for the beasts when they were both too tired to do so, and Sam who woke and roused them to move whenever the villagers came too close to their pitiful encampments. Sam was the one who taught them how to roast their meat over low coals that would not attract attention, and it was Sam who knew how to move quietly to a populated river in order to refill their wineskins with water. A part of Gabriel was ashamed, that he had allowed this clever, wonderful boy to live so long in fear, but the skills he had gained from his time in slavery were invaluable.

The trees thinned as they slowly made their way south towards Hell, leading to a need for even more careful movement by night, for more time spent searching to places to hide by day. For all Gabriel's intellectual knowledge, Sam and Lucifer were better at spotting caves in which they could slumber, or copses of trees that could hide them without fear. “It’s nothing on you,” Lucifer said once, when Gabriel expressed his regret at his uselessness. “I was a slave for nine years, and Sam’s been a slave basically all his life. We’ve had to learn to hide. You never had to know that.”

He supposed it was true, but his brother’s words were just another reminder of his failure. He hadn’t protected Lucifer. For all that he had visited his brother, slipping him food and trinkets, he had allowed his own blood to live the fearful life of a slave. And while he could not have possibly protected Sam all his life, knowing what the boy had been through was horrifying, and the guilt at having not saved him sooner ate at his insides. But the closer they got to Hell, the less the guilt gnawed at him. Hell might be a dark, terrifying wasteland, but it would be no worse than anything that Sam or Lucifer had endured. Holy God, it would be better, because at least they would be free. And sure, the wasteland would be a difficult adjustment for him, but he could survive it. Sam and Lucifer had survived their years of captivity and torment, so he could survive hardship and deprivation. It was perfectly doable, on an objective level.

So intent was he upon moving quickly towards Hell, he noticed far later than he should have that they were being followed.

Granted, he had never learned tracking, and certainly not the art of concealing his movements. What Prince needed such a thing, after all? But after weeks of travel, it became all too clear that the towns they avoided went eerily silent as they passed them, that the game grew sparse in their wake. Someone was on their trail, and with every day that the forest was quiet behind them, that they had no need to avoid wayward villagers in the woods, Gabriel grew more certain that someone from the Crown was hot on their trail.

They needed to change tactics, and quickly.

He took to having Sam and Lucifer ride ahead of him, just in case the trackers caught up with them. He would rather be caught by trackers and know that his brother and Sam were safe, than use them as bait to escape himself. Sam protested the change in arrangements, but reluctantly agreed at Gabriel’s insistence. The closer they drew to Hell’s borders, the safer they were, he argued. He would be damned if he would let Sam and Lucifer suffer for his escape plan. Anyone who came after them should find him, and not the two people he was most determined to rescue. If it cost him his life, he would free them, Holy God damn it all!

In any case, he was the one most likely to be granted clemency if captured. Lucifer had already been sentenced to death. Sam was a slave, someone with no standing, no claim to mercy. But he was a prince of the realm, the one with the most chance of being spared. If caught, he had no illusions that he would remain free; Michael would sentence him to slavery, at best. But even if his brother saw fit to execute him, to skin him and turn him into leather, at least he could die knowing that he had saved Sam and Lucifer.

They had nearly reached Hell’s border’s when their trackers caught up with them.

The sun had not risen fully in days, and grey clouds drizzled rain over their shoulders when Gabriel heard hoof-beats in the distance behind him. Two horses—he could tell just by the sound. He, Sam, and Lucifer had been busy filling their wineskins with rain-water, but there was no point in collecting drops if they were being followed so closely. He capped his wineskin and ran for Sleipnir, throwing himself onto the horse sans saddle and gripping his mane. “Sam!” he shouted furiously. “Lucifer! Go!”

Neither man hesitated before racing towards their horses and scrambling upon their backs, desperately urging them forward. Bareback, they rode through the woods, Sam clinging desperately to his black mare’s mane, Lucifer with his arms around his gelding’s neck. Gabriel urged his horse to a gallop, unheeding of the branches that whipped across his face, of his legs scraping against trees as Sleipnir struggled to find wide enough pathways. They had to outrun their trackers, Gabriel reasoned. Surely they could escape. Surely none of Michael’s men would push their horses to such an—

Sleipnir reared, throwing Gabriel from his back as a bright palomino stallion appeared directly in front of him, cutting off his movements. Gabriel grunted as his back slammed against dirt and twigs, knocking the wind from his lungs. “Gabriel!” Lucifer shouted, wheeling his horse back around and riding towards him.

Gabriel coughed, struggling to breath. “Go!” he coughed out, a strangled yelp. “Go! Run—”

The palomino’s rider shot forward, seizing Lucifer by the shoulder and dragging him from his horse. Lucifer cursed as he was slammed to the ground, and the palomino’s rider leapt from his horse, planting his foot against Lucifer’s back. “Dean!” he shouted after his companion. “Come back!”

The sound of hoof-beats in the distance was their only answer. Gabriel grimaced, pushing himself to his feet—he could only hope that Sam would escape, now. Panting, he folded his arms across his chest, glaring at the palomino’s rider. Castiel—oh, splendid. One of many men he knew he could not overcome in combat. “All right,” he snapped, sucking air into his protesting lungs. “You caught us. Don’t—” he coughed as his chest protested. “Don’t suppose you’ll let us go?”

Castiel ignored him, manhandling Lucifer to his feet and slamming him against the nearest tree. Gabriel growled and made a step towards his brother as Castiel began wrapping Lucifer’s hands and torso in rope, only to be stopped by the man’s glare. “You are both traitors to the Crown,” Castiel said evenly, tying the rope off efficiently. “King Michael has given orders that you both be brought back at any cost.”

“Oh, of course,” Gabriel said, laughter bubbling up in his chest. So close—so close, and it was all for nothing. “I forgot. Luci worshipped Michael, so of _course_ he tried to kill him. Then, he was stuck as a slave, so he killed our father, because he had so much to gain from it. Open your eyes, you narrow-minded bastard!” The thoughts that had boiled in his head for so long spilled from his mouth, angry and furious. “Michael’s a paranoid bitch who framed Lucifer. Then, then he just got impatient waiting for Father to die, so he killed him, and you really want to support this man?” He couldn’t stop the giggles from coming. They just wouldn’t stop. “With chumps like you around, the Hellions don’t even have to destroy Heaven! They’ll just wait ‘til Michael runs it to the ground, but ooh, you’ll support that, because it’s orders from a royal bloodline!”

Hoof-beats sounded through the woods, and Castiel’s companion rode up, towing the black mare with a crude rope, Sam bound and slung over the front of his saddle. The freckled man threw Sam to the ground and dismounted, glaring at him. “Steal my horse, huh?” he growled, before glancing at Castiel. “You got them?”

Castiel shrugged. “Bind the Prince,” he ordered. “We’ll take them back to the Capital together.”

On the ground, Sam coughed, glaring at the man who had captured him. “Yeah, bind the Prince, _Dean,”_ he spat furiously.

Castiel’s companion froze, turning slowly and glaring down at Sam. “How does someone like you know my name?” he demanded, his voice hard, iron-clad.

Sam laughed, a hard, angry sound that Gabriel had never heard spill from the boy’s mouth. “Wow,” he said bitterly. “Wow. All this, I thought that maybe when you looked at me, you’d recognize me.” He shook his head. “Guess I’m not good enough for the noble Dean Winchester. But hey, I guess it’s been nine years.” From the ground, he glared up at the man. “Nice to know you don’t recognize your own brother.”


	10. Treason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kingdom, or his brother? For Dean, it isn't a difficult choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: minor violence, mentions of torture, kidnapping, too much focus on social class.
> 
> Castiel probably doesn't come across as a terribly sympathetic character in this chapter. His POV will be explained in his next chapter--doesn't necessarily excuse it, but I'm not out to write black-and-white characters in this story. Feedback, as always, is much appreciated.

_“Nice to know you don’t recognize your own brother.”_

The air left Dean’s lungs as suddenly as if he had been punched in the gut. _Your own brother. Your own brother. Brother._

“Dean.” Castiel’s voice sounded distantly in his ears, unimportant. “Dean, snap out of it. We need to secure the Prince and go.”

But Dean couldn’t bring himself to move. Frozen, he stared at the tall, skinny boy on the ground before him, gaunt and bony and smeared with dirt, filthy hair hanging long enough to nearly hide his almond-shaped eyes, clothes tattered and worn from weeks on the road. He gulped, sinking to his knees as his legs gave out. It couldn’t be. His hand shaking, he reached out to brush the hair from the boy’s eyes.

The boy flinched, jerking back as much as his bonds would allow. “Don’t touch me,” he spat furiously, glaring at Dean. “Don’t you, don’t you dare lay a hand on me!”

Castiel’s hand came down hard on Dean’s shoulder, and he hauled him to his feet. “Get hold of yourself,” he commanded, shaking Dean hard. “The sooner we make it back to the palace, the sooner we can resume our duties. We’re needed, Dean. We can’t afford to waste time here.”

Dean shook his head, jerking out of Castiel’s hold and bending down to seize the slave boy. Furiously, he hauled the kid to his feet, ignoring the boy’s shout of outrage. “You’re not him,” he snarled, more to convince himself than anyone else. “You’re not him. I’d know if you were!”

The Sammy in his mind was short and plump. The Sammy he remembered wore a constant grin on his face, even as he toddled into walls and tripped over his own feet. This tall, bony, angry boy couldn’t possibly be his brother.

So he was probably about Sammy’s age. So he had his same angular hazel eyes. So underneath layers of grime, his hair might be the right color. It didn’t mean a thing. Dean shook his head, dragging the boy towards his borrowed horse. He’d tie the slave to the saddle and take his rightful place on Impala again, ride with Cas to the palace, and forget this whole incident.

“Make sure Dad gets some of my skin when it’s been turned into leather,” the boy snapped as Dean threw him up on the horse. “Bet he could use it. Just don’t tell Uncle Bobby where it came from.”

Bobby. There was no way some random slave could know who Bobby was. The blood in Dean’s veins seemed to turn to ice as he stared at the boy, who met his gaze angrily, chin quivering. “Sammy?” he said hoarsely, his voice cracking.

Dean’s chest constricted as his brother burst into tears, his cheek jammed against the horse’s saddle. “Y—you didn’t recognize me,” he sobbed, tears landing in fat, wet drops, staining the saddle leather. “In the palace, here, you, you didn’t, you didn’t—” He gasped for breath. Without thinking, Dean pulled his brother off the horse, cradling him in his arms before he could hit the ground.

“You left me there,” Sam gasped, turning his face even as Dean pulled him close to his chest. “You left me to _rot.”_

“No,” Dean whispered, even though he knew it was true. He should have made more of an effort. He should have used his new status as a noble to turn the kingdom inside out looking for his brother.

“Dean,” Castiel said impatiently. “I need to speak with you. _Now.”_

Dean tore his eyes away from Sam to glare at his Captain. “Stop it, Cas,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Stop it, please. I—I need—”

“What you need to do is get that slave secured to your horse so we can move,” Cas said sternly, his words a knife in Dean’s chest. “He might have been your brother once, but he’s not anymore. And he’s a traitor.”

“He was following my orders, you useless, stuck-up…”

The Prince was speaking, but Dean barely heard his words as he stared into Castiel’s eyes, cold fury pounding in his temples. “No,” he said quietly, reaching for his dagger.

Castiel’s eyebrows snapped together; he drew his shoulders back, glowering down at Dean. “What was that?” he demanded sharply, his voice cold.

“That was a _no.”_ Gripping his dagger, Dean pulled free the knot that held his rope around Sam’s body and rose, pointing the weapon at his Captain. “Do you need me to spell it out for you?”

Castiel stared at him as though stunned. “I never would have thought you a traitor,” he said, laying a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Don’t make me fight you, Dean.”

Roughly, Dean pushed Sam aside and stepped in front of him. “Sam, go,” he ordered tightly. “Take Impala,” he said, half unable to believe his own words. “She’s a better horse than that nag I’ve been riding.”

“I’m not going anywhere without Gabriel and Lucifer!” Sam snapped shrilly.

“Get on the horse and _leave,”_ Dean growled, not taking his eyes off Castiel. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Prince edge towards Lucifer, but he couldn’t worry about that now. He shifted his weight forward slightly as Castiel drew his sword, watching the man. This could get bloody.

It seemed, however, that the Holy God was looking out for him. No sooner had Castiel stepped back into a fighting stance than Lucifer came up behind him, freed of his bonds. Dean took a step back, startled, as the disgraced prince’s hand shot out, lightning fast, to grip the back of Castiel’s neck. Cas gasped, his limbs spasming for a few seconds, and then he slumped forward, unconscious.

Quickly, Lucifer dropped to his knees and began wrapping the rope that had been used to bind his own hands around Castiel’s arms. “We’ve got a few minutes before he comes to,” the man said, glancing at Gabriel. “Gabriel, get the other one.”

“Hey!” Dean protested, raising his hands and taking a step back, nearly colliding with Sam. “You don’t have to do that. I’m not going to bring you in.”

Lucifer glanced up briefly, his eyes hard. “We’re supposed to trust you?” he asked softly, turning his attentions back to Castiel. “I think not.”

“What exactly are you planning to do, Luci?” Gabriel asked, watching Dean warily. “We can’t just leave them here.”

“Sure we can.” Lucifer rose and fixed his unsettlingly pale eyes on Dean, staring at him as though sizing him up. “Take their horses and their weapons, leave them trussed up here while we get away. You got a better idea?”

Dean turned to look at Sam, meeting his brother’s eyes. “Sammy—”

“Don’t,” Sam snapped. “Don’t call me Sammy. It’s Sam.”

Dean took a deep breath, something in his chest crumpling slightly. “Sam,” he began again. “I know I let you down, but I won’t do it again. Please. I can help you. Take me and Cas with you, and no one will realize we’re missing. They’ll think we’re still on your trail, and they won’t send more teams after you until it’s too late.”

“He has a point,” Gabriel murmured behind him.

Sam gnawed absently at his lip, staring at the ground. “What if we tied them up and took them with us?” he asked hesitantly, glancing up and staring past Dean.

“It’s too risky,” Lucifer argued.

Dean sighed and turned around, unbuckling his weapons belt. Gently, he tossed the belt towards Gabriel, wincing as his sword clattered loudly to the ground. He looked between Gabriel and Lucifer as he slowly slipped his bow and quiver from his shoulder, laid them on the ground, and backed away. “You’ve got my weapons,” he said quietly. “Show of good will. And if you want to tie me up, that’s fine. Just—” He broke off, his throat constricting around the words he wanted to say.

_Just don’t take my brother from me again._

Gabriel sighed noisily. “Hands,” he ordered reluctantly, bending down and grabbing a length of coiled rope from Dean’s weapons belt. “Luci, gag Castiel, will you? We’re taking them with us.”

“This is a bad idea,” Lucifer muttered, but he stripped off his tattered shirt and forced open Castiel’s mouth, jamming the material inside.

Dean stood still as Gabriel bound his hands tightly behind his back and led him over to the bay nag he’d been riding. It took several tries and no small amount of help from Gabriel to get up on the creature’s back, his feet slipping in the wet stirrups. Once situated on the horse, Gabriel bound his legs tightly to the saddle and secured his tied hands against his back. “Comfy?” the man asked sardonically, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ll live,” Dean replied, watching as Sam scurried off—no doubt to retrieve supplies from their camp. “Cas—”

“We’re getting him, don’t worry,” Gabriel said, turning to help Lucifer fumble the other man onto his horse.

It was unnerving, having his hands tied while on horseback. Dean prayed silently that the gelding did not decide to bolt—no way he’d be able to stop the creature. Sam returned with saddles and saddlebags and set to work tacking up Impala and the other two horses, murmuring softly to the animals as he did so. A bittersweet pang shot through Dean’s chest as Impala nudged Sam affectionately, whuffing at his hands. He should have known that his baby wouldn’t let just anyone take her.

With Castiel bound to his horse, Gabriel and Lucifer mounted up, shortly followed by Sam. Lucifer wrapped the reins to Castiel’s horse around his saddle’s pommel, and Gabriel took hold of Dean’s borrowed gelding. “We shouldn’t be more than a few days out,” the man said, glancing back at Sam and Lucifer. “Let’s go.”

Dean longed to ask where they were going, but somehow, he doubted that he would get an answer. Instead, he focused on staying upright with his legs encumbered and his arms throwing off his center of gravity. It could have been worse. He’d ridden Bobby’s mule before, and _that_ had been an experience to complain about. In comparison, this was nothing, especially because whenever he twisted his head to look behind him, he caught sight of Sam, perched nervously on Impala’s back. If they ever decided to trust him, he’d have to teach his brother to ride properly.

Castiel began to come around several minutes after they had set out on their way. Dean glanced at his Captain, worried, as a pained moan sounded around the gag. “Cas, you okay?” he asked softly.

Castiel struggled into a sitting position and cracked his eyes open, glaring at Dean. _“Nngh,”_ he said furiously. His words were unintelligible, but Dean could take a hint.

“Sorry, Cas,” he said, just loud enough that he was sure the man could hear him. Lucifer glanced warily at him, but Dean ignored the man, forcing himself to keep his attention on his Captain. “You’ve gotta understand. Sam’s my _brother._ I already lost him once, let him down enough times. I can’t do it again. You’ve got family, don’t you?”

Castiel snorted, rolling his eyes. “I have to do this,” Dean said quietly, jolting slightly as his horse stumbled. The gelding righted himself easily, and Dean slouched in the saddle, staring at the animal’s ears.

Night fell, and they rode in the dark for several hours before stopping to make camp. “I’ll take first watch,” Gabriel said softly as they untacked their horses and freed Dean and Castiel from their saddles. Dean grunted as he was thrown none-too-gently to the ground, deposited beside Castiel. Warm, calloused hands helped him sit up, and Sam pressed a wineskin to his lips. Dean drank greedily, sucking water down his parched throat, and allowed his brother to press a hunk of some sort of smoked meat into his mouth. “We’re running low,” Sam said, glancing back at Gabriel.

“Let’s see if we can make it to the border before stopping to hunt again,” Gabriel said, pulling the gag from Castiel’s mouth.

“With two extra people to feed? Doubtful,” Lucifer muttered.

Castiel coughed as Gabriel finished extracting the shirt from his mouth. “You will not get away with this,” he snapped hoarsely. “Does your treachery know no bounds, Gabriel? All this, just to save a murderer?”

“Holy God, shut him up,” Gabriel muttered, jamming a wineskin between Castiel’s teeth. “I didn’t take you along out of the goodness of my heart, you know. I took you because Sam asked, and because apparently half-wit over there is his brother. I’d be just as happy leaving you here, naked and tied up with your own shirt.”

“It’s what we should do,” Lucifer complained, dragging one of the saddlebags over and flopping down, using the sack as a pillow. “What do we even gain out of this?”

“Lucifer,” Sam said quietly. “This is important to me.”

Dean’s chest pulled tight, and he stared at the ground. Apparently, Sammy had grown up to be kind. Too kind, too good for the life he had led. Dean should have been there to protect him.

Dean did not protest as Sam and Gabriel dragged him over to Castiel and bound him tightly to the other man. “Either of you makes a peep, you get a gag,” Gabriel said sternly. “You try to escape, you get knocked out. One of us will be on watch the whole time, so no funny business, got it?”

Dean nodded and Castiel glared. Dean sighed, shifting to find the most comfortable spot on the soft, muddy ground. A part of him longed to say something to Cas, to explain, to apologize, but Gabriel’s warning about the gag kept him silent.

It seemed to take forever, but finally, under Gabriel’s watchful eye, Dean was able to slip off to sleep.

0o0o0o0o0

Dean’s back was nothing but a single, massive ache when Lucifer roused him from sleep in the morning. The group was silent as they chewed bread and berries and passed around a single wineskin, occasionally giving sips to Dean and Cas. After eating, Sam packed up the camp while Gabriel and Lucifer wrestled Castiel and Dean back onto their horses.

Dean did not bother trying to sit straight for the ride. He slumped against his horse’s neck, dozing lightly. The trees thinned gradually before them, and by the time they stopped for the night, only the occasional stump or sapling dotted the bare, dusty plain before them. It seemed that the rains of the past several days had not extended this far south, to Dean’s relief.

“I think we’ll hit the border tomorrow,” Gabriel said as they untacked the horses and laid Dean and Castiel back on the ground. Dean grimaced, trying in vain to stretch the cramps from his sore legs. “We need aliases. It’s probably a bad idea to go into Hell using our real names.”

“Hell?” Castiel demanded sharply, the first word he had spoken all day. “It’s not enough for you to betray your King by running—you’re fleeing to his enemies?”

Without a word, Lucifer jammed a rag into Castiel’s mouth. Cas grunted, but fell silent, glaring at the man.

“Sam’s probably safe,” Lucifer said. “His name’s common enough. So is,” he glanced at Dean, “ _that_ one’s. You’re right about the rest of us.”

Gabriel clapped his hands together, smiling grimly. “From here on out, I’m Loki,” he said. “Valhallan name. Pretty sure the Hellions are on decent terms with the Aesir. They probably won’t question it.”

Lucifer snorted. “Always a flair for the dramatics. Can’t just pick a normal name,” he jibed. “I guess I’ll be called Nick. I’ve heard that name often enough.”

“Sure you don’t want to be Lucy?” Gabriel teased. “You’re pretty enough.”

“I’m not a girl, Gabri—Loki,” Lucifer said firmly. He glanced at Castiel. “What about him?”

Gabriel frowned, scrunching his brow. “Good question,” he mused.

“Jimmy,” Sam said softly. Gabriel and Lucifer both turned to look at him. “I’ve known a few men named Jimmy. Does that work?”

Lucifer and Gabriel exchanged a glance. “Works for me,” Gabriel said, shrugging. “You got that?” he asked, poking Castiel’s arm. “You answer to Jimmy now.”

Castiel said something unintelligible from behind the gag, and Dean couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man. As best he could, he wriggled closer to his Captain and offered him a sympathetic look. Castiel stared bleakly at him, red-rimmed eyes shining with hurt. “Guys, could you maybe take the gag out?” he asked softly. As stressful as the past few days had been on him, surely they’d been worse on Cas. Dean had agreed to go with them, after all; Castiel had not.

Castiel was silent when Sam pulled the rag out of his mouth; he stared at the ground, his face pale. “Hey,” Dean said softly, bumping his shoulder against the other man’s. “You okay?”

“What do you think?” Castiel hissed. “I’ve been kidnapped by traitors against my country. One of my own men, someone I trusted, someone I—” He broke off. “I cared deeply for you, Dean, and you betrayed not only our country, but me. And all for a slave.” He laughed bitterly. “Now, I discover that I’m being taken to Hell, where if I am seen by _anyone,_ I will be taken to their torturers, and no doubt forced to spill military secrets.”

Dean frowned. “What do you mean?” he asked quietly.

Castiel glared at him. “Hell wants me, remember?” he snapped. “They want to torture me for information. And too many Hellions know my face—do you think a fake name will protect me?” He swallowed hard. “I don’t even have the means to kill myself before that happens. I have _nothing._ No way to get out of it. And I can hold out against a torture-master, but for how long?”

Ice coiled in Dean’s gut. He shook his head, meeting Castiel’s eyes. “We won’t let that happen.”

Castiel huffed, rolling his eyes. “And you expect to be able to stop it, tied up as you are?” he snapped. “No. Already, being helpless and this close to the border, I am in danger—we all are. And you did this for a _slave.”_

He felt bad for Cas—he really did. But why couldn’t Castiel understand? “I did it for my brother,” Dean said quietly. “I don’t care that he was sold. That wasn’t his fault. He’s still my baby brother, and I’m not taking him to his death. I’ve already let him down enough.”

Castiel shook his head despondently. Dean sighed and leaned against the other man’s shoulder, the only comfort he could offer. “Do you have a family?” he asked hesitantly.

For a long moment, Castiel did not speak. “Yes,” he said finally. “An insane mother, a dead father, a younger brother, and—no. That’s my family.”

Dean nodded, his cheek rubbing against Castiel’s shirt. “Imagine if it was your brother,” he said quietly.

“But that’s not the same,” Castiel argued, shrugging Dean’s head off his shoulder. “Samandriel isn’t a slave.”

“But what if he _was,”_ Dean pressed. “Come on, man. Think about it.”

Castiel was silent for a long moment. “He wouldn’t have lived long enough for me to betray my country for him, anyways,” he said, his voice hard. “He has an affliction of his lungs. He would not survive a laborious life.  But even so, I would not betray Heaven for him, no matter what.” Castiel glared at his knees. “There’s enough treachery in my family.”

Dean frowned, confused. Never had he heard Castiel mention anything of the sort. “What do you mean?” he asked curiously.

“I have a mother, a brother, and a dead father,” Castiel said shortly. “As a child, I had a mother, a father, and two brothers. But the eldest betrayed Heaven. He was a member of the Guard, and he let the Hellions into the palace during the first skirmishes between Heaven and Hell. I was nine.” He glanced up, glaring at Dean. “The queen was murdered, because the man who was once my brother saw fit to betray Heaven. I made a promise to my country, long before I ever took my oaths. I’d thought you were the sort of person who could understand that loyalty—I was wrong.”

Dean glanced up as Gabriel flopped down beside them. “Not talking about old Gadreel, now, are you?” he asked lightly.

Castiel stiffened. “Do not speak his name,” he snapped.

“Yeah, good idea. We’re a bit close to Hell for that,” Gabriel said. He shook his head. “Casti—Jimmy. Jimmy. There’s a big difference between your big bro and Dean, here.”

“Of course you’d say that,” Castiel snapped. “He’s working with you. You have everything to gain from his treachery.”

Gabriel shrugged. “Maybe. Still. Your brother betrayed Heaven for no discernable cause. Well, honestly, it was probably an accident, but what’s done is done. He didn’t have any sort of motive, much less an honorable one.” Gabriel slung an arm around Dean’s shoulder; Dean flinched, startled. “Now, with Dean here, he’s trying to save his brother. He’s saving the life of an innocent kid who didn’t do any harm. And you can think what you want, but neither Luci—damnit, Nick—neither Nick nor I did anything to Michael.” Castiel glared at Gabriel, who smiled back sadly. “I let Nick languish in slavery for too long, even though I knew he didn’t try to kill Michael. Maybe if I’d been more like Dean, things never would have gotten this bad."

Castiel stared at his hands silently. Gabriel sighed and began tugging at the knots around Dean’s wrists. “You’re not a flight risk, are you, Dean-o?” he asked.

Dean shook his head. “No,” he said fervently. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Gabriel grinned. “Good,” he said, releasing Dean’s arms. “It looks sketchy enough, having one person tied up. I talked with Nick and Sam. Jimmy here is Nick’s cousin, and he’s touched in the head. We keep him tied up because he’s a flight risk when we travel, got it? Goes out of his head with all sorts of crazy ideas, such as being nobility.”

Castiel glanced up, glaring at them. “You pig,” he spat furiously.

“See what I mean? Poor sad sap thinks he’s Castiel, the Acting Captain of Heaven’s Royal Guard.” Gabriel clacked his tongue, shaking his head with mock sympathy. “Now, speaking of sketchy things, come join me, Nick, and Sam at the fire. We need to go over our cover story.”

Dean frowned, but he pushed himself off the ground and followed Gabriel. His wrists tingled as blood flowed back to his aching hands. Absently, he rubbed at the raw patches just above his hands, wincing as numb fingers protested the motions.

Gabriel flopped down in front of the fire and gestured for Dean to sit. “You guys good to clue Dean in on our cover?” he asked, poking Lucifer’s arm.

“If you insist,” Lucifer muttered, scowling into the fire.

Gabriel shrugged. “Okay, so here’s how it goes, Dean-o. Paying attention?” he asked, the serious look in his eyes at odds with his wide grin.

Dean nodded, glancing at Sam, who stared intently down at his hands. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s hear it.”

Gabriel nodded. “We were part of a Valhallan trade caravan. We were attacked by raiders in the south of Heaven, and got separated from our group. We’ve been wandering for weeks, but none of us are any good at reading maps, so we ended up in Hell.”

Dean frowned. The story seemed weak, somehow. “Why didn’t we turn back when we realized we were headed for Hell?” he asked carefully.

“Lots of raiders double as slavers,” Lucifer said before Gabriel could reply. “We just wanted to put as much distance between us and them as we could.”

That made more sense. “So, that will work, unless we get too deep into Hell,” Dean said, hoping he wasn’t overstepping his boundaries. The last thing he wanted was to end up in restraints.

Gabriel shrugged. “Honestly, I’m okay with staying in Hell for as long as necessary, but if we can find transport to Brahma or Valhalla—or anywhere other than Heaven, honestly—we should take it. Hopefully, we won’t be in Hell too long before we find something.”

Apparently, this was news to everyone except Gabriel. Lucifer’s lips thinned, and Sam glanced up sharply. “We’re not staying in Hell?” Sam asked quietly.

Gently, Gabriel laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Brahma and Valhalla are safe, kiddo,” he said. “They’re neutral towards Heaven. Last time I was in Brahma, they were discussing an alliance with Hell, even. If we stay in Hell, that’s fine, but it would be easier to make a living somewhere else.”

Glancing around at the sparse trees and rocky soil, Dean had to agree. They hadn’t even reached Hell’s border, and even peasants knew that the most unpleasant parts of Heaven were better than the best of Hell. He wouldn’t want to have to survive in that sort of wasteland any longer than necessary.

“So,” Gabriel said, breaking the silence. “Let’s get some shut-eye. If my maps are correct, and I know they are, we should reach Hell tomorrow.”

0o0o0o0o0

Dean had heard that Hell was hot, but he did not expect the change to be quite so drastic. It seemed that no sooner had they left behind the last of the trees than an oppressive wave of dry heat slammed him in the face, a stark, unexpected contrast to the cool air they had just left behind. Dean grimaced, wiping his brow and glancing over at Gabriel and Lucifer. “Is this normal?” he asked, coughing as he inhaled a lungful of dusty, too-dry air.

“Yep,” Lucifer said curtly. “Something to do with air currents. Our scholar can explain it better than me.”

Dean looked to Gabriel, who shrugged helplessly. “I study culture, not science,” he said. “I know that Hell is hot and barren, but I don’t know why the border change is so sudden.”

Dean grunted and turned his attention to the bleak horizon. Dry, yellowing grass crunched underneath their horses’ hooves as they moved forward, putting distance between themselves and the Heavenly border. “So, this is Hell,” he murmured.

“So it is,” Gabriel replied, not looking at him. “Sam, Nick, looks like you’re free men again.”

Behind them, Castiel muttered something unintelligible. “Got something to say, Jimmy?” Lucifer asked, glancing sidelong at the man.

“We need to turn back,” Castiel snapped, not looking at the man. His eyes sought out Dean’s face. “Dean. Please. Surely you see that this is madness?”

Dean stared down at his saddle, trying to convince himself that it wasn’t desperation he heard in Castiel’s voice. “Sorry, Ca—Jimmy,” he said quietly. “We can’t.”

“Dean,” Castiel begged. _“Please.”_

“Loki!” Sam hissed, sparing Dean the need to answer. “Loki, look, up ahead!”

“What is it, Sam?” Gabriel asked.

Dean allowed his eyes to follow his brother’s outstretched arm, squinting off into the distance. Far away, a small plume of smoke rose, too narrow to belong to any sort of wildfire. “What should we do?” Sam asked, his brow furrowed.

Gabriel chewed his lips. “We’re low on water,” he said finally. “It doesn’t look like it’s a full village. If it’s just someone living in a border house, maybe they could use some extra hands. We could see about trading labor for food and water?”

Sam and Lucifer exchanged glances. “I guess it doesn’t hurt,” Lucifer said finally.

They urged their horses to a trot, Gabriel tugging firmly Castiel’s mount’s reins to ensure that the animal kept up. As they neared the small plume of smoke, Dean could just make out a small building, a house by the look of it. The closer they drew, the more details he could make out; never before had he seen a house that looked to have been built out of earth. “Weird,” he muttered.

They slowed to a walk as they approached the house, and Gabriel flung himself from his horse’s back. “I’ll knock on the door,” he said, waving a hand at the rest of the group. “Wait here, okay?”

Dean gently edged his horse closer to Sam and Lucifer. “Think he’s got a plan?” he asked quietly.

Sam stared deliberately down at Impala’s ears. “Probably just plans to tell whoever’s in there our cover story,” he muttered. “They probably won’t ask many questions.”

The creak of hinges drew Dean’s attention back to the building. A young woman, barely older than Sam, stared mistrustfully at Gabriel from behind a cracked door. “Who are you?” she demanded, her voice hard.

“We’re travelers,” Gabriel said easily. “Valhallan traders. We got separated from our caravan.”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “Yeah, okay,” she said coolly, allowing the door to fall open further. Dean barely had time to shout a warning as the woman raised the crossbow clutched in her hands, previously hidden by the door. Gabriel leapt back with a cry, but the woman did not shoot, simply aimed the weapon at his chest. “Valhallan traders, huh?” she said. “What in Satan’s name are you doing on my property?” she demanded, her eyes tracking Gabriel, crossbow ready to fire.


	11. Hell's Border

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and the others seek refuge with Ruby, a Hellion who lives at the border. Unfortunately, the relatively hospitable Ruby is not the only Hellion in the area.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait--this semester is kicking my ass. Hopefully graduation will leave me with more time to write?
> 
> This chapter is a bit rushed, and I apologize. Hopefully it isn't so bad!

Dimly, Sam was aware that he had to still be breathing. Inhale, exhale, lungs still working. Still, as he stared at the crossbow trained upon Gabriel, he was certain that he was going to die. This was it. They had escaped Heaven, they had made it to Hell, and it was all for nothing. Their first encounter with a Hellion would be enough to finish them. He swallowed hard, biting back the whimper that threatened to escape him. If he was going to die, he could at least do so with his new-found dignity.

“Of course. We’re trespassers. My apologies.” Sam could just barely detect the panic in Gabriel’s voice, masked under a calm, placating veneer. “We were only looking for some food or water, in exchange for work, of course. If we’re not welcome here, we’ll go.”

To Sam’s shock, the woman lowered the crossbow a fraction of an inch. “Food and water, huh?” she asked. “Not much of that to go around. You want supplies, go north. Apparently, Heaven’s good for giving things away to everyone except us.” Her lips twitched in a bitter smile.

“We don’t expect anyone to give us anything for free.” That was Lucifer, his voice strong and clear, soothing. “We can work. Anything that needs doing, we can do, before you give us anything.”

The woman frowned, glancing around at their company. Her eyes caught on Castiel for a brief moment, before settling on Sam. Unbidden, Sam’s heart leapt in his chest. It was a stupid thing to notice, he thought to himself, but the woman was pretty—no, beautiful, really. He smiled weakly, his shoulders rising in a tiny shrug.

The woman sighed, and lowered the crossbow fully. “I’m too soft,” she said dryly. “My poor dead mother would kill me, if she were here to see this. You want work? I’ve got lots of that. But before I let you in my house, you hand over all those pretty weapons you’ve got.”

“Loki,” Lucifer said warningly as Gabriel reached for Dean’s weapon’s belt, buckled around his waist.

“What? It’s not an unreasonable request,” Gabriel said, unbuckling the belt and handing it over to the woman.

The Hellion woman glanced at Lucifer. “Yours too,” she said, gesturing at Castiel’s weapons.

Glaring, Lucifer unbuckled the belt and threw it to the ground, scowling. “If you think this means you can gut us unaware—”

“Quite paranoid, for a merchant,” the woman said, raising her eyebrows. “What’s the matter, scar-face? Scared of little old me?”

Absently, Lucifer scratched at the discolored patches of skin on his face. “If you’re not careful, you’ll end up murdered on the road,” he said practically.

“Ooh-kay,” Gabriel said before the woman could reply. “We gave you our weapons. You said you have work for us?”

The woman nodded, narrowing her eyes as she looked them over. “Why’s he tied up?” she asked, nodding at Castiel.

Lucifer shrugged. “He’s my cousin. He’s crazy. Doesn’t travel well.” His lips twitched in a wry smile as Castiel glared at him.

“Shouldn’t have brought him with you,” the woman said, rolling her eyes. “Even keeping someone like that alive is sentiment, much less bringing them with you on travel. Better to put a dagger to him and be done with it.”

Castiel snarled, and the woman shook her head. “Like I said,” she said, turning to Gabriel. “You don’t look like much,” she said, eyeing him critically. “Stay here and keep an eye on crazy, if you insist on keeping him around.” Swiveling slightly on her heel, she looked over the rest of the company, her gaze landing on Sam. Swallowing hard, Sam met her deep brown eyes. “You can put your horses in the shed out back,” she said. Maybe Sam imagined her hard gaze softening slightly. “They’ll just get in the way.”

Sam’s hands tensed on the reins. Pretty or not, he knew better than to trust this woman. “They’ll be safe there?” he asked.

The woman grinned. “Not going to lie, they’d make a good meal if slaughtered and cooked right, but don’t you worry your heads. I won’t touch them.”

“Thank you,” Gabriel said before Sam could reply. He dismounted, motioning for the rest of their company to do the same.

Sam’s feet had no sooner touched the ground than the woman grabbed him by the shoulder, dark eyes narrowing slightly. “You look pretty strong for your age,” she said thoughtfully. “What’s your name?”

Sam shivered and dropped his gaze, his cheeks heating under the woman’s stare. “Sam,” he muttered, scuffing his foot over the ground.

“Sam,” the woman said, drawing out his name as though tasting the letters. “Nice to meet you, Sam. I’m Ruby.”

Ruby. Pretty name for a pretty girl, and not a name he’d have expected for a Hellion. Sam glanced up, offering her a weak smile. “I should put my horse in the shed,” he said weakly.

“Leave it,” Ruby said dismissively. “Your spokesperson and crazy-man can take care of them.” She glanced around, pointing at Lucifer and Dean, both of whom gazed back with stony expressions. “You two, get pots from the house. There’s a stream about three miles down the way. Try to find some water that isn’t polluted with sulfur, will you?”

Sam swallowed hard as she turned back to him. “And you,” she said, her lips curling slightly. “You squeamish?”

0o0o0o0o0

With Gabriel sent to put away the horses and babysit Castiel in the tiny room at the back of the house, with Dean and Lucifer sent out to find clean water—easier said than done, Ruby had said—Sam was left alone with their strange host. Kitchen duty, Ruby had said, getting meat ready for eating. Having worked in the kitchens for so many years, Sam was certain that this would be nothing he hadn’t done before.

How wrong he was. Ruby pushed shut the door to the kitchen behind them and reached onto a hook for a pair of tough hide gloves. “Only got the one pair, so you’re going to have to be bare-handed,” the woman said, raising an eyebrow at Sam. “Try not to get bit, will you?”

“Bit?” Sam asked, confused.

“Yep,” Ruby said, striding across the tiny room and dragging a large clay pot out of the corner. “Pick up a knife, and wait for my say-so.”

Sam recoiled slightly as Ruby reached into the pot and withdrew a large, writhing snake. The creature hissed, lashing in her grip as she laid it out flat over the table, nodding at Sam. “First thing to do is take off the head,” she said. “Easier with two people. I’ll hold them down, you cut.”

Them. So there were more snakes. Sam shivered, taking a tiny step forward, the knife clutched tightly in his hand. He’d never been involved in the process of actually butchering an animal, even a snake. His stomach rolled at the thought—but if he let Ruby down, she might throw them out, he reminded himself. They did not have the resources to keep going on much longer, and he refuse to help just because he felt squeamish about performing the task set before him.

The snake hissed, snapping at him as he approached, before attempting to sink its teeth into the tough leather of Ruby’s glove. Sam gulped and raised the knife, bringing it down swiftly at the base of the creature’s head.

 _Thunk._ Sam leapt back instinctively as the snake’s severed head fell from the table, still snapping. He stared in horror as the body continued lashing, wriggling and fighting Ruby’s hold, decapitation seemingly not a deterrent. “Is this normal?” he asked, his voice squeaking shamefully.

Ruby chuckled. “It’s an infernal snake. They take forever to die,” she said casually, tightening her grip and stretching the body of the snake further. “Come on, don’t be a baby. Can’t exactly cook it with the bones still in it, can we?”

Snake. They were going to be eating snake. An absurd laugh burst from Sam’s throat—amusement or horror, he was not quite sure. “W-what do I do?” he asked shakily.

Ruby offered him a strange look. “Never gotten your own meat?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Dumbly, Sam shook his head. Ruby sighed. “Merchants,” she said disdainfully. “Okay, fine. Do what I tell you.”

Obediently, Sam allowed her to walk him through the process of removing the skeleton and guts from the still moving creature. It was not until he began to strip the skin from the snake that it finally ceased its struggles, dying quietly. A part of Sam wanted to throw up as he peeled scale and skin from the animal’s body; the rest of him was curious, fascinated. The whole process was so strange, so new.

Sam and Ruby were in the process of slicing the meat into strips when the door swung open. Dean entered the room, lugging an enormous clay pot with two hands. Sam glanced down, unwilling to meet his brother’s eyes. Sure, Dean had seemed very apologetic and eager to help them on the road—but it wasn’t enough. Sam could maybe forgive Dean for leaving him to rot as a slave in the palace—it wasn’t as though his brother could have stopped their father from selling him. But he would never, _never_ forgive Dean for not recognizing him when they saw each other again. For ignoring him as he served and slaved and starved, and then for chasing him down in the woods like some sort of errant prey.

“Water looks clean,” Dean said to Ruby. “Smells clean too. Is it?”

Ruby leaned forward and sniffed the contents of the pot. “It’ll do,” she said dismissively. “Pour it into that basin,” she added, gesturing towards a great steel basin in the corner. “Then go get more.”

Sam could nearly hear his brother puff up indignantly. “More?” Dean asked sharply.

“Well apparently, I have five extra mouths and a bunch of horses to provide with water, so, yeah. More.” Ruby turned back to Sam and tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, wake up. We’re not done.”

Sam nodded, deliberately staring at the table, lest he catch a glimpse of Dean. “Yeah,” he said, angrily slicing another thin strip of meat from the snake’s huge body.

Dean turned on his heel and left after emptying the water into the basin, much to Sam’s relief. “You didn’t seem to be on good terms with pretty-boy back there,” Ruby remarked casually, cutting off a hunk of meat, her blade sliding through the body.

“I’m not,” Sam said shortly. It wasn’t as though he could explain, not without blowing their cover.

Ruby laid down her knife and looked at him seriously. “I get it,” she said. “Some people have life handed to them, and some have to work for everything they get. Your friend looks like the first type. You—well, you don’t.”

Sam snorted. Was it that obvious? “I never had anything,” he said tightly, stabbing his knife angrily into the snake’s body, carving off a hunk of meat. “So, yeah, I worked for everything I got, which is nothing. Ending up here is the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Ending up in Hell is the best thing that ever happened to you?” Ruby snorted. “That’s a different song than I’m used to. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but there’s not much going for us here. This snake was supposed to be my meat for the week, you know. Takes hours to get enough clean water to bathe, and that’s only if I don’t need it for cooking or drinking. The heat will blister you in the summer, and you’ll freeze all winter long.”

“At least you’re free,” Sam blurted out before he could stop himself. No sooner had the words left his mouth than he froze, the weight of what he had just said sinking in entirely. _Holy God, curse it,_ he thought, his heart hammering in his chest. Gabriel had explicitly said several times that Valhalla did not have a slavery system comparable to that of Heaven. What if he’d blown their cover? No, no, he _had_ blown their cover. Just because he couldn’t keep his stupid mouth shut! Sam tried to force himself to take a deep breath, to no avail. Damn. He’d ruined _everything._

“And you’re not?” Ruby’s quiet words just barely penetrated the fog of panic that had descended over Sam, but they were just enough to function as a lifeline. Maybe, just maybe, he could salvage this.

“I—I don’t feel free,” Sam muttered, and Holy God, the words sounded lame even to his own words. “Not in any way that matters.”

Ruby nodded. “Caravan apprentice?” she asked knowingly. “Or what—indentured?”

Indentured—what? Sam frowned. He had never heard the word, but it sounded good. “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Indentured.”

Ruby leaned forward to pat his arm. “Well, Satan help you, maybe Hell’s better for you after all,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “If you like snake meat and sulfur, at least. How many years do you have left on your contract?”

Contract? Shit. Maybe he should have tried to find some other excuse behind his outburst. “Three?” he said, hoping that it sounded reasonable.

“I’d indenture myself for three years if it meant I got out of here, no questions,” Ruby said, smiling wryly. “As if any of the caravans that came through wanted servants from Hell. We’re all fine to trade with, but that’s it. And no one trades with us in the border, anyways. We’re on our own.”

At some point, he was going to have to ask Gabriel more about the life of common people in Hell. All Sam knew from the man’s mentions was that the Hellions traded when they could, and waged war when they could not. “It’s not very pleasant, is all,” Sam said, praying to the Holy God that Ruby would not ask any more questions.

“Is that long-haired man your master?” Ruby asked curiously, sliding her hand down Sam’s arm and settling her fingertips in the palm of his hand. “He seems more bumbling than cruel.”

Sam offered a weak smile, trying to come up with the vaguest answer he could. “Loki is very kind,” he said finally.

“Ah.” Ruby nodded and squeezed his limp hand, before withdrawing to pick up her knife again. “Enough with the heart-to-heart. We’ve still got work to do if anyone wants to eat tonight.”

That, he could do. Relieved that it seemed Ruby was finished asking questions, Sam eagerly threw himself back into dicing the remaining snake meat. Cutting meat, he could do. Kitchen work, he could do. In-depth questions about Gabriel’s pre-formed lie—that, it seemed, was beyond him.

0o0o0o0o0

Sam had expected that snake would taste slimy and disgusting, but the boiled meat was surprisingly delicious, almost like fish to his own taste. Castiel wrinkled his nose and said nothing about the meal, but Gabriel, Lucifer, and Dean ate with gusto, and Sam cleared his plate easily. Even the slight smell of sulfur wafting from his goblet could not entirely destroy his appetite, though it did make it difficult to drink the water. What passed for clean water in Hell would not pass for floor-cleaning water in Heaven, Sam thought wryly, forcing himself to take a tiny sip.

“There’s gathering to do, if you choose to stay on another day,” Ruby said, breaking the silence. “Gathering, and more water. Always more water. Or are you planning to move on?”

Sam glanced at Gabriel, who shook his head. “We’d be in your debt if you would let us stay another day or two,” he said, lightly stabbing a strip of snake with his knife and raising it to his lips.

Ruby snorted. “A couple poor merchants with no caravan, in debt to me. I can imagine the gold and gems already.” She shook her head. “I’ve got traps to check, wood to gather—greens too, if you can find any—prey to hunt. I don’t need your debt or your gratitude.”

Gabriel nodded. “So, a few more days, then?” he asked, glancing around the table. Sam nodded, along with Dean and Lucifer; Castiel glared, silent.

Ruby nodded and rose, wiping her hands on her long, dress-like tunic. “You can sleep in the back room,” she said, offering a tight smile. “If you want to be of any help, you’ll rise with me at dawn. I’ve got things to do, so don’t disturb me.” With that, she turned and left the room, leaving grease and tiny shreds of meat on the table behind her.

Gabriel exhaled, sinking back in his chair. “Well, it could be worse, right?” he said, glancing around the table.

“She fed us,” Lucifer agreed, “but I don’t think she’s going to offer us any provisions when we start moving again. We know where to get water. I say we take from those traps she mentioned and high-tail it out of here, try to find somewhere more centralized.”

Sam frowned as Gabriel nodded in agreement. “Isn’t that a bit, well, rude?” he asked, unease coiling in his gut. “She’s helping us, and all.”

Gabriel shook his head. “We can’t afford to stay here,” he said calmly. “No matter how… Well, she’s hospitable enough, but Lucifer’s right. We need to get deeper south before we can stay somewhere for any length of time.”

Sam grimaced. The idea of stealing from Ruby’s traps and running out on her felt slimy. “What if she comes after us?” he asked.

Lucifer snorted. “We could always leave _Jimmy_ here,” he said, glancing at Castiel. “She wouldn’t expect us to leave without him. By the time she realizes, we could be miles down the—”

“No,” Dean said abruptly, his first words since they had settled down to eat. “He comes with us.”

“He’s a liability,” Lucifer argued. “She might even let him go—he'd like that. He could be halfway back to the Capital while we—”

“And what if she kills him?” Dean demanded.

“Then good riddance to—”

A loud knock sounded on the door. Sam froze, staring at Gabriel and Lucifer, both of whom had gone white.

“Back room,” Gabriel muttered tersely. “This isn’t our house. Our dear hostess can deal with her own visitors.”

Quietly, Sam rose and followed Lucifer and Gabriel to the back room, leaving Dean to help the still-bound Castiel out of his chair and follow behind them. Footsteps sounded in the other room—Ruby’s. Sam held his breath, praying to the Holy God that their host would send whoever was on the other side of the door away. But what if it was someone from Heaven’s army, chasing them down? Dean and Castiel had been on their trail—were there others?

“Azazel.” Ruby’s voice was muffled through the door. “Why are you here?”

A man’s voice answered, low and oily. “Now, what sort of man would I be if I didn’t check up on my favorite border slut now and again?” Sam shivered at the man’s dark tone, muted though it was. “I promised your mother I’d keep an eye on you, didn’t I? And it does seem you need an eye on you.”

“You mean my unexpected guests?” Ruby’s voice was dry, dismissive. “Valhallan traders. I’ve got them working for their keep, don’t worry. Heard them planning to steal from me—” Sam glared at Lucifer, who grimaced “—but rest assured, I’ve got no plans of letting them do it. I’m not stupid, Azazel. I can take care of myself.”

The man—Azazel, Sam surmised—chuckled. “Maybe I should speak to these traders,” he said. “Make sure there’s not going to be any funny business.”

“Thought we were square with Valhalla. Or has something happened that hasn’t reached the border lands yet?”

Sam tensed as footsteps sounded, increasingly close to the door. Not one pair, not two—at least five, oh Holy God, the man wasn’t alone! _Breathe. Everything will be okay._

 “Oh, nothing to do with politics. I do have to wonder what Aesir are doing so far south by land, though. Usually, they come on their little carved ships, expecting that we’ll fall all over ourselves to trade for their fish and furs.” The door swung open, and a slight man strode confidently into the room, dented armor glinting in the dim light of the setting sun, barely visible through the room’s small window. “Well, hello there,” the man said, baring his teeth, his yellow eyes glinting. “Ruby’s guests. How nice to meet you.”

Sam swallowed hard, glancing at the others. Dean’s hand rested at his side, reaching for a phantom sword, and Castiel had turned his face away as though desperate to remain unnoticed; Lucifer had busied himself with his hands, picking angrily at his fingernails. Gabriel, on the other hand, stood tall, his spine rigid, tense.

“How nice to meet you too,” Gabriel said loudly, folding his hands behind his back. “Nick, Sam, Dean, why don’t you greet the nice man?”

“No need for pleasantries,” the yellow-eyed man said, his eyes roving across the room. “You look familiar,” he mused, meeting Gabriel’s eyes.

“One of those faces,” Gabriel said blithely. Sam tensed, his stomach tightening with unease. “You know how it goes. Everyone thinks I’m their second cousin twice removed.”

The man shook his head, frowning. “Not quite,” he murmured. “Meg,” he called, turning his head slightly, addressing one of the people behind him. “Second opinion?”

A round-faced woman with dark, curly hair stepped forward, her face breaking into a grin. “Looks like Astaroth’s information was good,” she said, walking slowly towards Gabriel. “Not from Valhalla at all, are you?”

Sam glanced at Gabriel, desperately hoping that the man had something, _anything_ up his sleeve. From the way his former master’s face had gone the sickly-yellow color of parchment, he wasn’t hopeful.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Gabriel said carefully, taking a step back. “We are—”

“Heavenlies,” the round-faced woman said, smiling. “Heavenly royalty, at that. We’d heard that Prince Gabriel had stolen Prince Lucifer from custody, but I have to say, I didn’t think you’d come this way.” Her eyes skipped over Sam, landing on Dean. “That you, Green Eyes?” she asked, turning from Gabriel and taking a step towards Dean. Sam clenched his fists, shaking, as the woman approached his brother. “Remember me? Or was that big, nasty fight too scary for you to remember little old me?”

Dean spat and swung at the woman, who caught his arm easily. “Calm down, I’m not going to take your eyes unless you make me,” she said, smiling and releasing her grip. “And is that—Baby Blues, is that you? Wow, the gang’s all here.”

“You’re sure they’re all Heavenlies?” the yellow-eyed man asked, taking another step into the room.

The round-faced woman glanced at Sam and shrugged. “Don’t know about that one,” she said, jerking her head at him. Sam shivered as the Hellion man looked at him, his sharp yellow eyes seeming to cut directly through him. “Shorty here is Prince Gabriel—his official portrait’s been circulated amongst the troops enough. Scar-face is the dear disgraced Prince Lucifer—big fan, by the way.” She smirked, winking at Lucifer, before turning to Castiel. “If only he’d turn around, I’d be sure, but I’d recognize that tousled hair and cute behind anywhere. That’s Acting Captain Castiel.”

The yellow-eyed man drew in a sharp breath, his hand falling to his sword. “You’re sure?” he said quietly.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Almost took his eyes in battle, before Green Eyes stopped me. Royal Guard, that one.”

Gabriel cleared his throat loudly, drawing attention to himself where he stood, spine locked and face white. “We don’t mean any harm,” he said, his voice pleading. “Okay. You caught us. But we—”

“Gabriel!” Lucifer barked angrily.

“What? They—”

“Shut up!” Dean snapped, stepping back into a defensive stance. “Shut up, if you—”

“We’re refugees!” Gabriel shouted angrily over Dean. “We’re not here to spy, or take down Hell, we’re here to get away from my mad brother!”

The yellow-eyed man paused, his lips turning up slightly. “That so?” he asked, meeting Gabriel’s eyes. “Then I’m sure you’ve got no problem going to see the King, to plead your case. Ruby!” he called over his shoulder, turning slightly. “I’m taking your guests!”

Sam jumped as a hand landed on his shoulder. “We have to run,” Dean hissed in his ear. “It’s not us they want, it’s Gabriel and Lucifer. We can take Cas and—”

Sam struggled out of his brother’s grip and turned, glaring angrily at him. “Take _Cas,_ huh?” he spat furiously. “And leave Gabriel and Lucifer, the only two men who’ve been _decent_ to me, behind? No. You can take that idea and—”

“We don’t have time to argue.” Sam bit back a yell as Dean wrapped a hand around his arm and covered his mouth with his other hand, dragging him backwards, towards the back door. “You go get the horses, and I’ll—”

Snarling, his blood boiling in his veins, Sam bit down hard on Dean’s hand. Dean released him, jumping back with a strangled yelp. “Go—you—go to Hell,” Sam bit out, fully aware of the irony behind his words. “I’m not leaving Gabri—”

Sam yelped as he was knocked to the ground, a pair of unfamiliar hands seizing his arms and binding his wrists together behind his back. From the loud thud that sounded directly across from him, Dean, too, had been knocked to the ground. “Truss ‘em up good,” a new voice called loudly. “See if they sing the same tune when the King and Alastair are done with ‘em.”

The King—the King of Hell? Icy fear gripped at Sam’s insides. Maybe _he’d_ come away unscathed— _maybe_ —but Gabriel and Lucifer? There was no way.

“No,” he whispered, tugging at his bonds, to no avail. _“No.”_

It seemed that he’d traded his cage in Heaven for a cage in Hell. And if Gabriel and Lucifer had been in danger in Heaven, how much worse would it be in Hell?


	12. The King and His Torturer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captured by Hellions, Castiel and the others are brought before Crowley, the King of Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Torture. For those of you who have read my other works, it's not nearly so graphic as my other torture scenes - but it's still there. I tried to keep it fairly non-descriptive, but it's still there. Happy things: Destiel. At least, Cas-being-in-love-with-Dean. This is your consolation prize.
> 
> I THINK I have Crowley's voice down okay, but please let me know where I can make improvements! (Always let me know where I can make improvements.)
> 
> I'm sorry this chapter took so long. I wrote the previous chapter right before finals. I have since graduated, and am now adjusting to the "real world" and a full-time career-type job. It's an intense transition, with a lot to take in. I only just found the energy to write this chapter, but still, I apologize for the wait. You all are awesome for putting up with it.

With his hands tied together and his legs bound to the knee, Castiel did not expect his efforts to jerk free of the Hellion woman’s grasp to have any effect. Even so, he could not stop himself from struggling in her hold as she secured him to the back of a skeletal donkey, unceremoniously slinging over the beast’s hindquarters. He’d had enough of being tied to beasts of burden, he thought bitterly, and at least his company of traitors had been decent enough to allow him to sit upright.

Meg—the yellow-eyed man had called her Meg, right?—secured the donkey’s lead to her own pony’s saddle, offering him a leering grin as she did. “Nice ass, baby-blues,” she taunted, punctuating her words with a sharp whistle. “Alastair’s gonna love getting his hands on you. I’ll bet you make all the fun faces when you’re trying not to scream, don’t you?”

She was just trying to get a rise out of him. Castiel glared stubbornly at the ground, tilting his head awkwardly to avoid a face-full of donkey hide.

“Leave him alone!” Dean shouted from somewhere behind him. Castiel resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He had warned them that this would happen. How many times had he asked them to turn around, told them that Hell was too dangerous? They would have been better off throwing themselves upon Michael’s thin mercy, he thought bitterly. Heaven’s executioners might be swift and harsh, but Hellions tortured their prisoners until they were nothing but bloodied scraps. Everyone knew that.

Raucous laughter sounded from the small contingent of Hellions. “Hey, is he your girlfriend, boy?” one of them asked mockingly. Castiel pretended that nothing about those words stung. “Well, you like him so much, why don’t you ride with him?”

Castiel grunted as an unexpected weight was tossed on top of him. Above him, Dean cursed as the Hellions tied his limbs to Castiel’s, pinning him beneath Dean’s bulk; below him, the donkey stamped and shifted irritably. Was the creature even strong enough to take the weight of two grown warriors? Perhaps he’d crack his skull when the donkey inevitably collapsed. It would be a mercy, Castiel thought, wrenching fruitlessly at his bonds.

“Hey look, they brought us a Heavenly gift!” one of the Hellions crowed from a distance. “Horses – five of ‘em! Looks like we’re gonna eat well tonight, ladies an’ gents!”

Castiel flinched as Dean roared furiously, thrashing and squirming over him. “Don’t!” he shrieked. “Don’t you dare!” Several feet away, Castiel was certain he heard Gabriel protesting in a similar manner; Sam and Lucifer remained silent.

“We’re not eating the horses,” Meg said firmly. “They’re probably battle-trained. Ride up to the gates of Heaven on Heavenly horses and slaughter them all—now _that’s_ poetry I can get behind.”

Dean’s squirming was beginning to get uncomfortable. “Dean,” Castiel snapped. “I am already in for a world of pain when we reach Hell’s capitol. Will you _please_ stop bruising me? I’d like to hold out as long as possible against the torturers, and _you are not helping.”_

Dean went rigid above him. “Sorry,” he muttered gruffly. “I just—fuck, they’re threatening you, then they’re talking about eating Baby—”

“They don’t need to threaten me,” Castiel hissed. “I already know what they want with me. They’ll turn me over to one of their torturers. You’ll be lucky if they don’t do the same to you, to everyone in this knot of stinking traitors.” He took a deep breath, rage and hurt pounding at his temples. “And all because you chose to turn your back on everything you claimed to care about, for a slave _._ You turned your back on your King, on your country, on the Guard, on—” He caught himself before he could finish. _On me,_ he longed to say—but he’d never been important to Dean, and he knew that. No more than the rest of the Guard was, and apparently they meant nothing at all.

Dean was silent for a long moment. “He’s my brother,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I gave up everything. I gave up my home. I gave up my position. I gave up my friends, I gave up most of my family, I’m probably going to be giving up my life, and I’d do it all over again. He’s my _brother,_ Cas.” His voice did not waver, but pressed close as they were, Castiel could feel his breath hitch slightly. “I’d do anything for him.”

It was a sentiment that Castiel would never understand. Oh, to be certain, he loved Samandriel dearly, and would give his life for the boy, but he wouldn’t betray his country. He’d loved Gadreel, once. But family meant nothing without loyalty, and Castiel could not love an oath-breaker.  It would be wrong—he could not love a traitor, whether they had been family, or prince, or friend.

Castiel was surprised at the pain in his chest as he realized that this meant that he could not, in good conscience, love Dean Winchester. _It doesn’t matter,_ he thought bitterly, attempting in vain to soothe the sudden, unexplainable ache.  He would be dead within a week anyways. Loving Dean would have been pointless, and he was better off this way. Of all the men to die loving, he reminded himself, Dean Winchester was perhaps the worst of them all.

0o0o0o0o0

Every second of the week-long ride to Hell’s capitol was agony. The Hellions were not nearly as generous with their water as Gabriel’s company had been, and Castiel was sure that he would die of thirst before they even reached the city. The donkey’s sharp, jutting bones jabbed Castiel’s ribs with every step, and as fat and muscle steadily melted away, he had no padding to protect against deep black bruises. His stomach writhed by the third day without food, so empty that he welcomed the dry grass and dead insects that the Hellions deigned to feed them—until his stomach rejected the insufficient, disgusting fare, causing him to vomit down the donkey’s flank. (The poor animal hardly seemed to notice, Castiel noted distantly.)

Hell’s capitol was so small and unassuming that were it not for the small stone fortress up ahead, he would never have guessed that it was more than a large village. As their captors hurried them forward, the fortress loomed in Castiel’s limited vision, smaller than his own manor but so much more intimidating. They rode through the gate, and despite his personal pledge that he would remain stoic, that he would not break under Hell’s tortures, dread twisted in his guts. After a week of torturous riding, he doubted his ability to withstand.

Their captors pulled them from their horses, and as they slit the ropes that bound his limbs, Castiel considered running. But where would he go? Already, the guards upon the heavy gate were twisting it shut; he was weak, dehydrated, weaponless. There was nowhere to run, and from the way the Hellions grinned at them, they knew it.

Exhausted, Castiel allowed Meg to manhandle him into line with the others, directly behind Gabriel and in front of Lucifer. Castiel turned his head to try to catch a glimpse of Dean, only to receive a sharp jab to the back. “No time for sight-seeing, baby-blues,” the Hellion woman said, flashing her teeth. “C’mon. His royal stick-up-his-ass awaits.”

“Satan, Meg, have a little more respect!” one of the Hellions grumbled. Castiel gritted his teeth, internally cringing at the mention of the One Holy God’s true adversary. Sometimes it could be easy to forget that not only were Hellions a cruel and dishonorable people; they were heathens too.

Another jab to his back, and they were moving forward. Castiel stumbled wearily after Gabriel, his feet catching on the rough ground. Onward they marched, the great iron doors of the fortress groaning open, loud and ominous in his ears.

Where the Royal Palace of Heaven was light and airy and grand, Hell’s royal fortress was tainted with an omnipresent darkness that the wall-torches did nothing to dispel. Castiel staggered over rough-hewn stone, nearly slamming into Gabriel as his eyes strained against the darkness. The ceilings soared high above his head, too high for him to see their end in the gloom. He could only barely make out the stone pillars at the end of the hall, and the great wooden throne beyond them.

A fortress that opened straight into the throne room was hardly secure, Castiel thought distantly. Nothing like Heaven’s throne room, packed away deep in the castle, to keep out wanderers and assassins. No wonder Hell’s dynasties changed so frequently at the hands of challengers—there were hardly even any guards.

As they neared the throne, Castiel could just make out the man on the throne. The King of Hell was shorter than he had expected, a slight paunch padding his belly, his dark hair thinning at the top. Castiel could not stop the frown that crossed his face. This was the king who sent warriors to harry their cities, who waged war endlessly, whose people lived on battle? He more resembled a paper-pusher than a tyrant of the battlefield. From the little Castiel knew of King Crowley, he had seized his throne and begun his own dynasty after killing the previous monarch—yet this man looked like little more than a paper-pushing merchant.

“Azazel.” Where his appearance was unimposing, his voice was not; a shiver ran down Castiel’s spine as King Crowley’s accented voice roiled through the hall. So he had presence, charisma. He was still nothing on Michael, Castiel thought furiously.

“Your Majesty.” The yellow-eyed man gave a short bow, a gesture of respect that did not seem quite humble enough for a king. But the Hellions were barbarians—who could expect them to have proper manners, even amongst themselves? “I bring you a gift. Prince Gabriel of Heaven, Once-Prince Lucifer of Heaven, Acting Captain Castiel of Heaven, and their… Companions.” He waved a dismissive hand at Dean and his brother, and Castiel bristled in spite of himself.

The King made a soft noise of interest. “Two princes of Heaven, and their Acting Captain himself?” he asked softly. “Interesting. Tell me, where did you find these lovely chaps?”

Gabriel cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Your Majesty,” he said, taking a step forward and bowing, bending deeper at the waist than the yellow-eyed man had. “We mean no disrespect to you, or harm to Hell. Would you allow me to speak to you without violence?”

King Crowley blinked, and then chuckled. “What a funny man,” he said, his lips turning up in a distinctively smarmy grin. “Azazel, you and your men stand down. I’ll speak to the disgraced princes on their terms. Both of you,” he added, his eyes sliding to Lucifer. Castiel stiffened, outrage welling in his chest. Gabriel might be a traitor, but he had yet to be officially stripped of his title; to treat Lucifer as his equal was—well, it was an abomination.

Gabriel and Lucifer both stepped forward, and Castiel ground his teeth, biting back rage. “Your Majesty,” Gabriel began.

“Oh, stop the formalities and chit-chat, and let’s get down to business. It’s Crowley, not Your Majesty, not Your Grace, not your bum-licking Emperor of the Wastelands, or whatever titles you over-puffed Heavenlies bother with. I’m not going to bother with your titles, so don’t expect it. You’re here. You say you mean no harm to my Hell. I’m waiting for a reasonable explanation.”

Castiel gritted his teeth, torn between satisfaction at the rudeness with which this man was treating his captors, and insult at the slight to a Prince of Heaven. Gabriel, on the other hand, seemed to take it all in stride. “All right, Crowley. We’re here seeking asylum,” he said bluntly.

The King of Hell laughed at that. “Seeking asylum? In _Hell?”_ he demanded, chuckling. “I have to say, that’s the first I’ve heard of that.” He rose with a single fluid motion and took a step towards them, shaking his head.

“It’s true,” Lucifer said, his smooth voice calm, reasonable; Castiel felt the irrational urge to tackle him to the ground and throttle him until his voice matched his twisted insides. “Michael is crazy.”

“He’s bat-dung insane,” Gabriel cut in. No respect—none whatsoever. Castiel hissed under his breath. “He was going to execute Lucifer and turn his skin into a saddle, or something like that. So we ran.”

“Liar!” The exclamation burst out before Castiel could stop himself; simmering outrage boiled over to red-hot fury in his chest. “You liar!”

The air seemed to hang still. Slowly, the King of Hell turned his gaze upon Castiel; Gabriel and Lucifer pivoted nearly in unison, staring at him.

He’d drawn their attention, and there was no hope for him. Castiel took a deep, shuddering breath. “I don’t know who began the rumor that King Michael turns human skin into leather, but it is a _lie,”_ he snapped viciously, fury and indignation pounding in his veins. “His Majesty is a good and honorable man, and for you to defame him as such—” He took a deep breath, and another, his face burning. “You have sunk lower than I had imagined.”

Gabriel and Lucifer exchanged looks. “Head in the sand, much?” Lucifer asked, cocking his head arrogantly to the side.

“I’ll say.” Gabriel met Castiel’s eyes. “Look, Acting Captain Stick-up-the-ass, I’ve been dragged into the tanner’s plenty of times. Lots of human corpses, lots of human leather. His boots are made from his old body slave. His belt is made from a noble who was too slow to bow, once. His saddle is made from a Hellion corpse. Shit, I’m pretty sure _your_ saddle, the one he gave you? Pretty sure that’s made from Gadreel.”

The mention of his traitor brother did nothing to calm Castiel’s ire. “Liar,” he repeated, his voice a low hiss as he reached instinctively for the blade that he no longer carried.

“Well, this is all sordid and fascinating, but I don’t think quibbling over questionable fashion choices is going to answer any of my questions,” King Crowley said loudly. “Prince and former Prince, I want to continue our chat. Azazel, take those two at the back off to the dungeons for the time being, but don’t harm them. Meg, bring the little Acting Captain to Alastair.”

This was it—the moment he had known was coming. Castiel took a deep breath, and was dismayed to realize that it did nothing to calm the sudden pounding of his heart, the writhing of his insides. He took another breath, then another, and nothing, nothing nothing nothing—

“Wait!”

Castiel’s eyes snapped to Dean, who was struggling desperately against the hands around his biceps. “Don’t hurt him,” Dean panted, staring up at Crowley with agony in his eyes. “I know who Alastair is. I know _what_ he is, everyone does. If it’s information you want, I’ll tell you everything I know—just don’t hurt him.”

Something in Castiel’s chest constricted, an uncomfortable mix of gratitude and horror. “Dean, no,” he protested, his voice tinny and small in his own ears.

Crowley peered at Dean, his eyebrows raised. “Interesting,” he murmured. “Very interesting. Why would I, or Alastair, be interested in what you have to say, little squirrel?”

Dean gulped. “I’m a member of the Royal Guard,” he said, his voice shaking. “Anything he knows, I know.”

“Dean, don’t,” Castiel half-gasped, his temples pounding, his heart fluttering wildly. Dean wasn’t a Captain, he didn’t know everything—but he knew enough. Enough that his testimony could probably bring down the wall, open up Heaven’s gates to slaughter and carnage.

“Hmm. I’ll bite,” Crowley said, nodding at Dean. “Go with Meg and your little friend. Anything you’d want to tell me, you can tell Alastair. He has quite the sympathetic, listening ear,” the King said, a razor-sharp smile cutting across his face.

Castiel screamed as Meg wrapped her arms around him and dragged him off, a cry of rage and grief and betrayal. This man, this man who he called friend—who, if he was honest with himself, he had begun to love—was willing to turn traitor in the worst possible way. He could not hold back the angry tears, the furious sobs that tore at his chest and ripped from his throat. “Why?” he demanded when he could speak, even as Meg dragged him down a side-hall, towards a dark flight of stairs. “Why are you doing this, Dean?”

Bright green eyes met his, hard as flint but wet with what might have been tears. “Know how I said I’d do this all again to save Sammy, ‘cause he’s my brother?” Dean asked, his voice haggard. “’Cause it’s you. Don’t know why, don’t know how, but you’re family, Cas. You’re family, and that means everything. I can’t let them rip you apart, not if I can stop them.”

If anything, his chest constricted further. _Family._ Dean considered him family. It was too much—and yet it was all wrong, it wasn’t enough. Between deep, gasping breaths, darkness encroached upon his vision, and Castiel was forced to consider an unpleasant truth that made him want to run and hide even more than did the prospect of torture.

It didn’t matter that Dean was a traitor. It didn’t matter that he was a low-born commoner, no better than a scoundrel at heart. Castiel had not simply begun to love him. He _did_ love him, he loved him, he was in love with him.

And that thought, Castiel realized, was more frightening than the worst torture that Hell could inflict upon him.

0o0o0o0o0

Heaven’s dungeons were cold and damp. Hell’s dungeons, on the other hand, were hot and dry. Already dehydrated, a single breath of the dungeon air had Castiel gasping for water, his throat painfully parched and his tongue thick like cloth.

Hell’s famous torturer turned out to be a skeletal man with snake-like eyes, who hummed to himself as he stripped Castiel naked and strapped him to a wooden rack. “I’ve been waiting a long time to get my hands on you, Castiel,” he murmured, his unpleasant, nasal whine ringing harshly in Castiel’s ears. “I have to say, it’s an honor. Heaven’s youngest Acting Captain, and from what they say, the best. Can’t wait to make you sing prettier than a bird, little man.”

Behind him, Dean cleared his throat. “We have a deal with your King,” he said harshly. “I tell you everything I know, and Cas doesn’t get hurt.”

Alastair chuckled. “Oh, Crowley and his deals,” he said, shaking his head. “You want to sing for me too? Feel free. I’ll bet it’s almost as pretty as feathers here, but when all’s said and done, you’re a little nobody, and this is my prize hen, just waiting to squawk.” Castiel shivered as Alastair raked a single long fingernail over his ribs, too lightly to hurt.

“I’m a member of the Royal Guard,” Dean said flatly. “I’ll tell you what you need to know.”

Despondent, Castiel buried his face in his shoulder as Alastair turned to address Dean. He wished he could tune out the world, bury himself in nothingness so that he would not have to witness Dean’s ultimate treachery.

It was impossible to block Dean’s words. Castiel shivered, squeezing his eyes shut, as Dean poured forth battle plans and guard formations, the weakest points in the wall and the Guard, the secret entrances to the palace. He continued on, spilling army secrets and tactics, techniques and strategies that even Castiel had not known. With every word, Castiel felt his very soul crumble. Dean had betrayed him. He loved the man who had betrayed him. Their very country would fall to ruin, crumble and disintegrate under Hellion rule, and it was the man he had loved who made that very thing possible. Castiel swallowed hard, trying not to retch. _Not your fault,_ he reminded himself miserably. He wasn’t the traitor. He wasn’t the one who had cracked and broken before Hell; at least he would not carry on the stain of treachery that had so plagued his family for years. He was not another Gadreel.

No, he was simply in love with a man even more despicable than Gadreel, and that was worse.

“Hmm, that’s very good,” Alastair murmured when Dean finally went quiet. “Very good. Thank you—what was your name, boy?”

Castiel did not need to see Dean to know that the man was grinding his teeth. “Dean Winchester,” he snapped angrily.

“Dean Winchester, Dean Win—oh, I’ve heard of you!” Castiel flinched at the dark joy in Alastair’s voice. “Heaven’s newest line of nobility; I heard something about that. Never pegged you as anything important, but I guess you’re just full of surprises.”

Dean snorted. “Yep, that’s me,” he said coldly.

“And you’ve told me everything you know,” Alastair mused. Castiel forced himself to remain still as he heard the man take a step towards him. “And yet, you’re just a foot-soldier. A member of the Royal Guard, but not its leader. I’ll bet this little pigeon has a few more tidbits for me that you don’t, hmm?”

He heard Dean’s sharp intake of breath. “We had a deal—”

“And I’m not Crowley. I work with results, not some inane code.” Castiel froze, his heart hammering, as he felt the light kiss of iron against his throat. “So, how about you strip out of those fine, fine clothes and climb up on my rack, where you can’t do any harm, or I’ll slit your lover-boy’s throat?”

A moment of silence, and then there was the rustle of cloth and the sound of footsteps. A dull clank, and Castiel could only assume that Dean had climbed up onto a wooden rack similar to his own. “Happy?” Dean demanded, his voice dark and bitter.

“I will be.” Castiel opened his eyes as the knife pulled away from his throat. Helplessly, he watched Alastair cross the room and chain Dean to the rack, leaving him as spread-eagled and helpless as Castiel himself.

At any other time, Castiel might have taken a moment to bask in the glory that was Dean’s naked body. Now, he could only see the anger in the other man’s face, the fear that glinted behind his hard, masked eyes. Alastair ran a deceptively gentle finger across Dean’s cheek, and Castiel swallowed back bile. “There, that’s good, isn’t it?” Alastair asked, glancing across the narrow room and meeting Castiel’s eyes. “Now, little bird, you’re going to tell me everything you know.”

Castiel swallowed hard. “Dean told you everything,” he said roughly, steeling himself. Any moment, Alastair would cross the room. Any moment, that iron knife would bite into his flesh, drawing forth blood and agony—but he would endure. He would not betray his country, no matter the cost. He would _never_ be like his once-brother, would never be another Gadreel.

“Is that so?” Alastair twirled his knife idly between emaciated fingers, baring his teeth in a toothy grin. “I’m sure you wouldn’t mind if I make sure.” Swiftly, the man whirled around and struck Dean across the face with the flat of his knife, eliciting a yell from the other man.

Castiel inhaled sharply, his bravado and certainty fleeing in a single moment. “What are you doing?” he demanded, twisting his cuffed wrists. “You want information, right? Aren’t you supposed to torture me?”

“Oh, but I am.” Alastair glanced back at him and winked, before turning his gaze back to Dean and slashing across his clavicle. A stifled cry shivered through the room, and Dean bit his lip, his eyes widening with pain. “Any time you feel like singing, little bird, feel free. Until then—” he drew his knife across Dean’s torso, just deep enough to draw blood, “—I’ve got a pretty new canvas to paint red.”

Slice, and slice, and strike with the knife; with each wound, Castiel felt his resolve crumble. “Stop!” he cried finally, as Dean slumped forward against his bonds, his torso painted red with blood. “Stop! I’ll tell you what you want to know, just let him be!”


End file.
